


Burn It Down

by DaniWib



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AR_Febuwhump, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And hair ruffling, But no-one we like, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort what comfort, Cos I needed a bit of fluff, Easter Eggs, FebuWhump2021, Gen, I don't know how to write whump, Imprisonment, Is this whumpy enough?, Kidnapping, Murder, Ok there's comfort, Or maybe a bit more than typical, Revenge, Someone messes with Yassen's second and he's not happy, Starvation, There's a cuddle, Torture, Whump, febuwhumpday3, like a lot of death, lots of dead bodies, pongnosis' The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea Universe, scorpia alex, there's a lot of death in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaniWib/pseuds/DaniWib
Summary: Alex gets captured and then stuff happens.Written for Day 3 of AR Febuwhump 2021.Takes place immediately after the last chapter of The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea(before the epilogue)
Relationships: Alan Blunt & Alex Rider, Alex Rider & Everyone, Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 64
Kudos: 78
Collections: AR Febuwhump 2021, Devil and the Deep Blue Sea Inspired Works





	1. Chapter 1

Alex Rider was feeling deliciously full, his teenage appetite pleasantly satisfied after sharing a meal with Jack at a cosy restaurant in the embassy district of Abu Dhabi. Sagitta had insisted on the location, Marcus reasoning that with so many other security personnel in the area it was a relatively safe area for a spur of the moment celebratory meal.

Alex, or rather, Orion, had completed his second ‘graduation’ assignment with the death of Warren and the complete destruction of his home in Australia. He had also survived the debriefing with Dr Three afterwards, something he hadn’t been entirely sure would actually happen. He had been fairly confident that Yassen would be accepting of the way he’d completed the mission, knowing as he did Alex’s feelings on the matter of torture, but Dr Three . . . well that was another matter. One that had happily come out in his favour for once. 

A celebration was in order, Alex decided as he embraced Jack. Neither had enjoyed their forced separation and the hug was long and heartfelt, a tension Alex hadn’t even been aware of easing with her in his arms. He was taller than her now, he noticed in amusement. 

“Marcus, we’re going out for dinner,” Alex announced, to the collective disapproval of his security team, Sagitta. “You can pick, I know how you feel about these things,” he continued, feeling magnanimous in his euphoria of, you know, not being dead. 

After a tasty meal, Alex mentally snorting at how Yassen would disapprove as he selected fried fish and chips (with extra chips), they decided to walk it off and headed off towards the nearby riverfront. Ivey was ahead on point, Marcus behind Alex and Jack, and Shale and Mace were behind him, while Jarek and Adams took the cars down to the waterfront. Alex was laughing at something Jack had just said, imagining Smithers’ face when he received the necklace she’d sent him, when he saw Ivey suddenly spin around towards them. His face was contorted. 

“DOWN!” he screamed. 

It was probably only sheer instinct that allowed Alex to react so quickly. In one swift movement he had pushed Jack sideways towards the wall, sheltering her body with his own. A second later there was an enormous roar. Time seemed to slow down. Bright, white light flared blindingly. The roar expanded, growing even louder, then came the noise of showering glass and debris and falling people – _was that a body? Was that Ivey?_ At the same time Alex felt himself being lifted into the air from the force of the - _bomb?_ _Was that a bomb?_ \- Jack falling in front of him, then all went dark as his head slammed into something hard and concrete, and he knew no more. 

\------------------------------------

The first inkling that Yassen had that something was wrong was when he heard a guard reporting an explosion to Dr Three, across the bay, in the center of Abu Dhabi.

“Hmmm,” Dr Three mused thoughtfully, “We don’t have anything scheduled for this area anytime soon.” Yassen looked across the dining table at him, rising to his feet abruptly and pulling out his phone. 

“Orion is in town having dinner.”

The call to Alex went unanswered, as did the subsequent calls to Marcus, Adams and Jack. Security teams were dispatched to the scene for an assessment, while Yassen paced back and forth, waiting for Alex to get in touch. After what felt like an interminable wait, Yassen’s phone lit up with an incoming call from Marcus. 

“Status?” Yassen snapped.

“Orion has vanished.” Marcus shouted into the phone. “We need back up.”

“Vanished.” Yassen’s voice was like ice. “Explain.” 

But Marcus continued to shout down the phone.

“I can’t hear you; my hearing’s been blown by the bomb. We’re on Al Yaqout Street near the entrance to the Embassy of Lebanon. The place is a mess, you need to get here ASAP.” The phone went dead in Yassen’s hand as he snapped orders to Hill and Danube, striding towards the exit as he did so. 

Danube scrambled to keep up with him. “Sir,” Hill began, then hesitated, clearly thinking that it wasn’t safe for the executive to go, but nervous about contradicting Yassen Gregorovich. 

"It may not be safe for you. Perhaps..."

Yassen stopped. Fixed him with a cold expression. Hill cleared his throat. 

"I'll get additional security..."

They left, Hill not at all happy with the situation but unable to overrule Mr Gregorovich. He did what he could, then simply hoped that nothing else would occur with this mess.

The street looked like a war zone when they arrived, with each end having been cordoned off by the police. A smoking crater stood in the center, twisted shards of the remnants of some sort of vehicle scattered and smoking around its edges. 

The front of the Lebanese Embassy was gone. It had been torn open; the rear of the building exposed on every level. Papers and other unidentifiable debris flew lazily through the air, rising and falling as they moved through the patches of hot air generated by multiple fires both in and outside of the embassy. 

Nearby buildings on both sides of the street had also been blown open, and every vehicle in the street was either on fire, smouldering or had been blown apart. A few bodies lay scattered around the area, burnt beyond recognition apart from being vaguely human shaped. Survivors sat in ambulances, being triaged by the paramedics as they stared vaguely at nothing at all. 

Some of team Sagitta were huddled at the edge of the destruction, just outside the police cordons with Jack. They were all covered in black soot, ash and blood, with various wounds. Yassen felt his misgivings rise at the sight of blood running from their ears. That didn’t bode well for what state they might find Alex in. A frissen of unease uncoiled in Yassen’s core as he took in their surroundings. _Where was Alex? Was he badly injured - or was he dead? Where was he?_

Mace, completely ignoring his own, milder injuries, was working on Ivey, who had extreme burns all over the back of his body. He was unconscious, and a lot of blood was oozing out of a deep gash on the side of his head. Shale, also only slightly hurt due to his position with Mace behind the rest of the group when the attack occurred, was trying to apply a bandage to Marcus, who was shouting at him angrily and trying to push him aside with one arm, his other arm - which had clearly been injured in some way - hanging uselessly at his side. Jack was patting Marcus on his shoulder, she and Shale both trying to get him to sit down so they could check him over. Paramedics, having seen the weapons on blatant display and observed Mace and Shale’s competence, had passed the group by, moving to assist other victims at the scene instead.

The group caught sight of Yassen as he approached. The expression on his face made them shrink back at once. Marcus turned; and flinched back as Yassen came to a halt in front of him.

"Report." The anger underlying Yassen's tone was palpable.

“Sir! A car exploded further down the street from us. It knocked us all out and when we came to Orion was gone,” Marcus shouted, his hearing still affected by the blast. “Adams and Jarek are searching for him now.”

Yassen flicked a look at his escort, and the Azov and Baikal teams immediately left to search for Alex as well. Danube stayed with Yassen, stationing themselves around him in a clearly protective manner. 

“Show me,” Yassen ordered Marcus tersely. Glaring at Shale who had been trying to treat him, Marcus stepped out onto the footpath. Cradling his injured arm, he staggered a dozen meters closer towards the zone of destruction. A policeman started to stop them, took a good look at them and visibly decided not to bother, stepping aside and letting them through. 

"Orion was here. Ivey saw something ahead and turned back to warn us," Marcus stated, his voice still louder than normal. "I turned to cover Orion, but it all happened so fast - there was no time." He visibly swallowed; glanced at Yassen as if expecting immediate reprisal. When none came, he continued. "It's a bit of a blur what happened next because we were all knocked out, but we think Orion hit the wall here..." He stepped sideways, pointing out a wall to Yassen's right. There was a smear of blood starting slightly higher than Alex's height. Yassen's eyes traced the smear downwards, towards the ground. "But when we came to, Orion was gone," Marcus muttered. Yassen could hear the guilt underlying his tone. He didn't comment.

Yassen looked around. There was blood and unidentifiable pulp on many of the walls and surfaces in the area, dripping and slowly sliding downwards. Chunks of charred and smoking flesh scattered around the ground. But Yassen's eyes kept coming back to the smear of blood on the concrete wall that Marcus had pointed out to him. Alex's blood.

"Vo etu pizdets." The curse had slipped out before he could stop it. The control Yassen had so carefully cultivated throughout his life had somehow evaporated in an instant with the knowledge that Alex was gone. _What the hell had gone wrong?_

\------------------------------------

The smell of smoke, the taste of metal and burning flesh in his mouth. 

Dull roaring and simultaneous ringing in his ears. 

_Pain._ Aching, throbbing, stabbing pain.

Eyes fluttering, struggling to open. 

Something holding him down.

A sharp prick in his arm. 

Oblivion.

\------------------------------------

Back at Malagosto, Dr Three was viewing the real time results of Alex’s tracker when Yassen strode into his office without bothering to knock. 

“He’s in Iraq,” Dr Three informed Yassen. 

"Iraq?" How had he got there so quickly? It had been less than three hours. Yassen swore internally, falling into the chair opposite Dr Three a good deal less gracefully than he usually did. Dr Three eyed him, and then turned back to the screen.

“He’s moving. Given the speed and trajectory it appears that he’s on a plane.” Dr Three shared a look with Yassen. He understood, as much as Yassen did, that this was not good news.

Dr Three’s assistant touched his hand to his ear, then moved from where he was standing behind the doctor to turn the large TV mounted on the wall in front of them on. 

A news report filled the screen with images of the devastation, a reporter standing at the end of the street where it had been cordoned off. 

“. . . the number of dead is not yet known. Authorities are saying that the suicide bomber drove a vehicle filled with explosives down the street at approximately 10.15pm. The target was the Embassy of Lebanon, and the nearby embassies of Pakistan, Morocco, and Tunisia were also damaged. 

The Taliban has already taken responsibility for the attack, stating that it was a direct result of the withdrawal by the UAE of their offer to host a Taliban embassy.

The UAE withdrew their offer when the Taliban refused to meet the three conditions set . . .” 

Dr Three’s assistant muted the sound as an operative knocked on the door, entering immediately after. 

“Sirs. There is no sign of the MI6 agents known to be in Abu Dhabi. Persons fitting their descriptions were seen boarding a plane one and a half hours ago at the international airport, accompanied by a stretcher with a body strapped to it. Our informant said the body appeared to be an unconscious youth with blond hair.”

“Get me all surveillance footage from the area of the bombing, as well as between there and the airport,” Dr Three ordered, turning to Yassen. “He only arrived back today. I don’t have high opinions of MI6, but I don’t think they would blow up several embassies just to capture Orion.” 

“No,” Yassen replied heavily. He could still see the smear of blood down the wall in his mind. He could feel his control slipping away, robbing him of his usual cool, calm demeanour. Alex was gone, was out of his reach, and there was nothing he could do about it. Yassen was shaking as he tried to repress his emotions. Tried, and failed. “How the _fuck_ did this happen?” he ground out. “Did MI6 manage to capture their most wanted target by _blind luck_?”

“At a guess I’d say they were just in the right place at the right time. Probably shadowing Orion while he had dinner and were just close enough to take action once the bomb went off. Clever of them to think on their feet like that,” Dr Three mused, earning himself a dirty look from Yassen. 

As the hours passed while they watched the tracking results, it became clearer and clearer that Alex was on his way to London. Yassen’s mood, dark to begin with, deteriorated as time went on. All he could see was that smear of blood, sliding down the wall. All he could think of was Alex, back in the hands of MI6. The people who used a child with no regard for his safety. The people who failed him so completely, time and time again. _Alex, his Alex, back with those monsters._ Yassen growled internally, restraining himself from throwing his coffee cup at the wall, as he spun about suddenly, jabbing a pointed finger angrily at Dr Three. 

“I will move heaven and earth to get him back. I will make them pay. He’s mine. He’s fucking _mine_. And nobody, _nobody_ , lays a goddamn finger on him without my permission,” Yassen snarled. 

Dr Three blinked mildly, before opening his mouth to reply. “Ours.”

“What?” Yassen snapped. 

“Ours,” Dr Three repeated calmly. “He’s _ours_. And oh yes, we will make them pay. We will make them pay _dearly_. An example will need to be set.”

\------------------------------------

Alex woke slowly, cracking open heavy eyelids that were crusted shut with something. He squinted and blinked groggily, trying to lift his arm to scrub at his eyes before abruptly realizing that he was unable to move. A moment of panic followed, thinking he’d been paralyzed in the - _oh shit that was a bomb, is Jack OK? Ivey! Oh my god Ivey! He looked like he was dead what the fuck is going on_ \- before he realized that he was sitting in a chair, with his arms, chest and legs restrained somehow. Blinking his eyes clear, he looked up and around the room, noting a man sitting in the corner near the door. The red lights of a camera shone in the corners of the dim grey room, and a mirror filled the wall opposite him. 

A heavy feeling of dread uncurled in his stomach as Alex recognized the room. It was the very same one that they had thrown him into, all those years ago when he first found this building. Somehow, he was in the hands of MI6, back in the Royal & General Bank in Liverpool Street. Back where it had all begun. Alex had no idea how it had happened, but he was in London. In the hands of MI6. In the hands of Blunt. Fear rose within him before he could stop it, making him feel more like a teenager than he had in a long time. _What would they do to him? He’d betrayed them. Chosen Scorpia over them. Killed people._

 _No._ Alex stopped that line of thought. _Blunt had caused that. He had caused it all. Blunt. Not me. Blunt had made the choices that led to me fleeing them. He was responsible, not me._ Pushing the fear away, Alex allowed anger to grow in its place. 

Breathing deeply to regain control, he took a moment to look at his own reflection in the mirror, noting without surprise the gash across his forehead and the dried blood that had dripped from it into his eyes and down his face. His head ached and he probably had a concussion, but he wasn’t expecting medical care anytime soon. Black, brown and red grubbiness was smudged everywhere he could see, and his hair was covered in it too. He _stank_. Alex hoped it was all his own blood and not Jack’s or any of Sagitta’s, but the memory of bodies hitting the ground rose to mind unbidden. He shoved it aside ruthlessly, suppressing yet another bad memory.

Keeping his movements as unobtrusive as he was able to, Alex flexed his arms and legs in turn, straining only a little against the cable ties that secured each limb to the chair. Shackles on his wrists. A strap ran across his bare chest and another across his upper thighs, which were thankfully enclosed in boxer shorts, but not the ones he’d been wearing - _great, some bastard has undressed me again_. He could feel that his feet were bare and what felt like handcuffs were secured to each ankle. What he could see of his arms was bruised, cut and grubby, blood and black soot or ash or something smudged all over them, just like his face. 

Alex tilted his head from side to side, flexing his neck muscles to relieve the tension he was feeling there. He lifted his shoulders and moved them in small circles as he did so, a throbbing pain in his forearm suddenly making itself known, probably from when he’d hit the wall – _oh god Jack, Ivey!_ Moments later the door opened, and a man entered the room. He was dressed in a simple, conservative business suit, and was unfamiliar to Alex. 

“Alex Rider,” The man stated in a faint European accent. Alex kept his face blank and stared at him, not speaking. It wasn’t a question after all. He tagged the man as Stooge #1 in his mind. 

“We have some questions for you. Will you answer?”

“I will speak with Alan Blunt,” Alex replied calmly. A look of surprise crossed the man’s face before he regained control.

“I don’t know who that is. Tell me about Scorpia. What has been happening with the executive board members?”

 _Yassen would be so disappointed in me if I was that easy to read_ , Alex thought to himself, as he ignored the man and looked up into the mirror, choosing a spot in the center, slightly higher up. He gazed steadily at that spot and didn’t speak. The agent repeated his question. Alex again ignored him. A second later the agent had crossed the room and slapped Alex, hard, across the face.

“Look at me, boy. This isn’t some game you’re playing. Answer the questions or you’ll face the consequences.” 

_Face the consequences?_ Alex thought hysterically, trying not to laugh. _What are we, back in school again? Am I going to get a time out?_ He returned his gaze to the same spot and didn’t say anything. 

Stooge #1 tried; Alex had to give him that. He shouted in Alex’s face. Slapped him a few more times. Thumped him in his chest, which did cause a gasp as Alex realized he was injured somewhere there, near his hip around the back. Some sort of gash maybe? It was a stabby sort of pain, anyway, annoying but easy enough to put out of his mind. It didn’t feel drippy so it probably wasn’t bleeding too badly. After a few hours of yelling, the man finally left. It was a pretty lame attempt at interrogation, Alex thought. Dr Three would be disgusted. 

Alex didn’t think Stooge #1 had read his file, as he’d basically just ranted at him like he was a teenager, probably just to see what Alex would do. Alex hadn’t said another word, just stared at the same spot on the mirror the whole time. 

Inside the viewing room, Alan Blunt stood and stared back at Alex. It was unnerving, the way the boy’s eyes bored directly into his own. Blunt knew that Alex couldn’t possibly see him through the mirror and shouldn’t have any idea where he was being imprisoned, but still . . . it made his skin crawl, and not many things did that. 

After Stooge #1 had left, Alex stretched his neck muscles again, repeating his earlier tensing and flexing throughout his body. Completing his exercises, he simply sat, thinking about how long it had been since the explosion. Probably less than a day. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, and London was about 7, maybe 8 hours away by air. _There’d been an injection at some point too, hadn’t there?_ Looking down at his inner elbow he saw a red dot. _Alright then._

His stomach wasn’t growling yet, so yeah, probably less than a day so far. Pressing his back against the chair he was bound in; Alex couldn’t feel any particular pain there. The tracker was most likely still in place then, so Yassen and Scorpia would come for him sooner or later. He was suddenly glad that there hadn’t been time to get it removed yet. 

Alex reviewed his memories of what had actually happened – _had he been the target?_ He didn’t think so. The explosion was further down the street, in front of Ivey, and whoever was behind it had only needed to wait a few more minutes and they would have been right there, right next to whatever it was that had exploded. He was desperately worried about Ivey, and Jack. Even Marcus had been close by. The thought of losing any of them like that, without warning, just _gone_ . . . he mentally shook himself and refused to think about that anymore. 

Yassen would have matters in hand. He would be making plans; was probably on his way here already. Alex just had to wait. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind, preparing himself for whatever was coming next. 

\------------------------------------

Yassen startled as Dr Three dropped two folders down on the desk in front of him. He hadn’t been asleep, _couldn’t sleep_ , but had drifted off in thought and zoned out, which was very unlike him. It had been almost three days since they’d lost Alex. Yassen’s rest since then had been less than desirable. He found it difficult to go to sleep, taking hours to succumb, and then seemingly minutes later would jerk awake, scenarios of what Alex might be enduring playing out in his dreams. Thoughts of what Alex must be feeling, imprisoned by MI6, the very ones that had forced him onto the path he never wanted. The image of Alex’s blood on the wall seared into his brain....

Finding it near impossible to reclaim his customary calm exterior, Yassen had settled instead for a terrifying anger, lashing out at anyone or anything that aroused his ire. Several guards and students were sporting vivid bruises or black eyes, and the entire compound had begun avoiding him, with the exception of Marcus, who seemed almost desperate for punishment for his failure to protect Alex. Yassen knew he had lost control, and despised himself for the weakness, so had retreated to his office and holed up there, obsessively working through different rescue scenarios for the recovery of his Second. He was itching to fly into action, to do something, anything, but had been told to wait by Dr Three, who was perhaps the only person who had as much of a vested interest in recovering Alex as Yassen did, aside from Marcus and Sagitta.

Frowning at Dr Three, Yassen looked down at the pair of folders in front of him. One was marked ‘Retaliation’, the other ‘Retrieval’.

“I will take care of the first,” Dr Three informed Yassen. “You will take care of the second.”

Opening the folder marked ‘Retaliation’, Yassen was confronted with a list titled MI6 Agents. Heading the top of the columns, the titles read Name, Intelligence Officer / Agent, Location, Support. 

The rows were filled with information, pages and pages of them. Thumbing through the first bundle, Yassen quickly counted over 40 pages. A second bundle listed similar information, titled Safe Houses. He looked up inquiringly at Dr Three. 

“There are currently 2,592 MI6 agents and intelligence operatives on active duty worldwide. Another 500 or so are in England. They have 854 safe houses in various locations, some of which are empty while others are in use. It matters not to our plans. I have suspended all Scorpia operations worldwide and issued new instructions to every operative and security team we have.”

“Instructions to do what?” Yassen asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“To burn it down,” Dr Three replied. He had been wearing his customary small smile, but now it widened, conveying an ominous enthusiasm Yassen usually only saw when the doctor had thought of a new torture technique to experiment with. “To burn it _all_ down.” 

Yassen paused. To burn all _what_ down? “Explain.”

The doctor adjusted his glasses, the impression of a schoolteacher prevailing even as he embarked on his explanation. “I have always been fascinated with the idea of orchestrating a Bellum Sacrum - a Holy War. Given my lack of faith it has proved an unobtainable dream, until now. They have taken Orion, our Chosen One, our heir. It follows as appropriate that we should destroy them utterly.”

Yassen paused again. “Isn’t that a little . . . dramatic?” he asked. “Retrieving him, of course. Killing those responsible, naturally. But the whole organisation? It seems a bit excessive, to say the least. Not to mention that they are a potential source of business.”

Dr Three raised his eyebrows. “Do you disagree, then?” 

Yassen wanted to. But the idea had appeal. The thought of completely obliterating the annoying thorn in their side that was MI6. Wiping them from the face of the earth …. Taking revenge on the organisation that had caused Alex so much pain, that had caused Hunter so much pain …. it was oddly intriguing. “They will reform. It won’t stop them. It will probably make us a target again. It could even cost us clients.” 

“So be it. Do you care?” Dr Three asked him. 

“No.” It was the truth. 

“Neither do I,” Dr Three replied. “So it’s decided. We burn it down.” That ominous expression again, accompanied by a cold glee that almost sent a shiver down Yassen’s spine, in spite of the fact that he was well used to Dr Three’s mannerisms and approach. But the next moment it was gone, replaced by a beam of a smile, as if Yassen had just given Dr Three ten years’ worth of Christmas presents at once - the doctor really had wanted this for a long time, Yassen mused, as he watched his colleague gather up his folder and leave the room.

Yassen began to read the contents of the Retrieval folder, feeling more like his usual self than he had in days. 

\------------------------------------


	2. Chapter 2

Marcus was feeling frustrated, the guilt over his failure to protect Alex eating away at him. Days had passed and nothing seemed to be happening. He, Mace and Shale had been released from medical the day after the attack, sporting a variety of stitches and bandages, with Marcus’s injured arm the most serious of the three. Their hearing had returned gradually as the hours passed, the dull roar fading away and leaving throbbing headaches in its place. Ivey was still unconscious, having borne the worst of the explosive impact. 

The terrorists’ van - _and wasn’t that ironic, Orion being captured because of a random terrorist attack that had nothing at all to do with them_ \- had been filled with TNT, a high order explosive which caused a supersonic over-pressurization shock wave. The blast injuries that Ivey sustained were critical and numerous, including an open head injury, ruptured ear drums, abdominal haemorrhage and perforation, penetrating ballistic injuries from the bomb fragments, fractured arms and flash burns to 80% of his body. Worryingly, he had also developed Blast Lung, a severe after effect of the shock wave, and had undergone a thoracostomy as a result. Dr Jarvadi was keeping him in an induced coma for the foreseeable future. His condition was critical but stable, and he was being monitored carefully around the clock by the doctor and her assistants. 

Pacing the hallway outside of Mr Gregorovich’s office, Marcus glared at the two Danube members standing guard at his door. They had already refused to let him enter, stating: “Mr Gregorovich is not to be disturbed.”

Jack rounded the corner and strode towards him. She looked somewhat better than he did, having been protected by both Alex and Marcus, and had only a plaster across her forehead and a bandaged wrist. 

“Marcus! Any word?” she greeted him. 

“No. They won’t let me in,” he muttered angrily, gesturing at the guards. 

“They’ll let me in if they know what’s good for them.” she replied, stalking up to guards and glaring at them with her best Tiger Mum impression, fury practically radiating off her in waves. “Well?”

The guards looked at each other and wordlessly opened the door, letting them in. Yassen looked up from his paperwork in anger, about to berate them for disobeying orders, then saw who it was and simply sighed, nodding his head at them. 

“Well?” Jack demanded. “What are you doing about getting Alex back?”

“Making plans,” Yassen answered curtly. “It’s not something you just rush into like a headless chicken.”

“What plans? What, exactly, are you going to do about it?” Jack insisted, not backing down. Marcus looked at her in awe. It was like she had no fear of Yassen whatsoever. 

“Planning ways to get Danube, Azov, Baikal, and Sagitta into England is no easy matter. There are ways but it takes time. You need to trust us. We will get him back.”

Hearing Sagitta’s name in the list lifted a weight off Marcus’s shoulders.

“You’ll still have us, sir?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Alex will be - annoyed - if I didn’t allow you to be involved,” Yassen replied. He didn’t look happy about it. “I don’t want to listen to his grumbling when he gets back.” Jack and Marcus shared a look. 

“Besides, you did nothing wrong. I approved the dinner excursion. The Devil’s luck just finally ran out.” 

Instructions were sent that day to every Scorpia operatives, combat teams and assets worldwide. Confirmation of the orders was provided when queried. 

“We are going to war.”

Excitement began to grow when Scorpia’s people realised that they were being given free rein to do as they pleased, as long as they met certain criteria, one of those being that the bodies were to be delivered to a certain location by a certain date. This was unprecedented. Those with past grievances against MI6 suddenly saw a chance for revenge. Scorpia’s operatives were none of them nice people, and many were thrilled at the chance to strike back at one of the world’s leading intelligence agencies. Even those with no grudge against MI6 were enthusiastic at the thought. 

Slowly, but with gathering speed, Scorpia began to mobilise. 

\------------------------------------

Alex wasn’t sure how much time had passed since his imprisonment. The lights were never turned off, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Keeping track of time had proved impossible. They’d had the decency to release him from the chair, removing the cable ties and straps, but leaving the manacles around his wrists and ankles, though the guards had taken the chance to administer a decently thorough beating while they were at it. Alex now had a lovely array of bruises over most of his body, and what he thought might be a couple of broken ribs – _why is it always ribs with me?_ he wondered moodily. _I wouldn’t mind shaking it up a little once in a while. Just for variety._

He’d been escorted to a bathroom a few times – they probably didn’t want to clean up the mess he’d leave if they didn’t - and he’d been given water several times, but no food. Most of the time they left him locked in the interrogation room, which was bare of any other furnishings. 

He was careful to never make any sudden movements. There were always a minimum of two guards when they were moving him and sometimes four if an agent was present. Most often there were only two, and Alex would have felt insulted by their underestimation of his skills if it wasn’t so handy. He supposed he didn’t present much of a threat, between the beatings and his wounds. Alex knew he was still capable of action if the opportunity arose, though. Watching them out of the corners of his eyes, he’d long ago analysed their patterns of behaviour. Keeping his own mannerisms meek and docile, Alex had already noticed that they were starting to relax slightly around him. 

Being released from the chair meant he could look at the wound in his right side, where he found a large shard of twisted, burnt metal sticking out. Pulling it out had not been a pleasant experience. He’d pretty much passed out and when he came to on the floor some time later, the shard had disappeared. Pity. It would have made a good shiv. The stabby pain in his side had eased somewhat now the shard was out, and he hadn’t bled too much onto the floor, so it couldn’t have been too deep. His left forearm still ached awfully, and Alex guessed it was probably broken. He had nothing to use as a splint, so simply left it alone, trying not to use it much while also trying not to let the guards see that it was causing him pain. 

Mostly, he was feeling bored. Bored, hungry and sore. He’d expected a lot more in the way of interrogation and wondered why that wasn’t happening. 

\------------------------------------

Alex was unaware of the raging arguments that were being held in the building above his head. Blunt had ordered interrogation and authorized use of any means necessary to get the answers he wanted. Jones, going against him for the first time, countermanding his orders, supported by Derek Smithers and Ben Daniels. The argument had continued for hours and resulted in Jones stationing her own trusted guards outside the basement room that Alex was being held in. Blunt was furious and threatened to fire Jones, who had threatened to expose what Blunt had forced Alex to do for MI6. They were currently at a stalemate. 

John Crawley placed a report on Mrs Jones’s desk, causing her to look inquiringly at him as she opened it. 

“A few agents have missed their check ins, and a couple didn’t turn up for their rendezvous. We’re looking into it but I thought you’d like to know,” he reported. 

“Thank you Crawley,” Jones replied, sighing as she ran her hand through her hair. “Any update on Scorpia, or Gregorovich?”

“None. Scorpia’s been suspiciously quiet. Some of their operatives that we’ve been keeping on eye on seem to have vanished, and a few of their operations have just – stopped.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Jones muttered. “Tell Blunt, will you please? I’d rather not speak to him right now.”

It started slowly at first. So slowly that no-one even realized that there was a problem, until it was too late. A couple of agents missed their designated check-in. It was no big deal, sometimes things happened, or the timing didn’t work out. There were thousands of agents in the field, and not all even had regular check in arrangements. Their handlers made a note to check in with them in a few days’ time. 

By the end of the first week, MI6’s head office was made aware that hundreds of agents and officers had gone silent. Calls were made, emails were sent, coded messages left. Where possible, local law enforcement or the military was sent to check on them. They were gone. In some cases there were signs of a struggle, in others they were just – gone. There were no bodies.

Walking the halls of the Royal & General Bank in Liverpool Street felt distinctly different to the usual polite English feel of the place. There was an air of barely suppressed panic in the building. Agents scurried here and there, phone calls started out hushed and escalated quickly to flustered shouting. Conference rooms had lists of agents pinned up on walls, categorised by location and operation. Red lines crossed out more and more each day. 

Blunt ignored Jones and had Alex properly interrogated. 

\------------------------------------

Bound and back in the chair again, Alex was bleeding from several cuts in various locations around his body. He snorted internally at the thought of how he’d been feeling bored and made a mental note not to look a gift horse in the mouth next time. The interrogation was nothing compared to what Dr Three had put him through in resistance training but pain was pain nevertheless, and boredom was always preferable. 

“You do know that you are violating Article 17, fourth paragraph, of the 1949 Geneva Convention III right? It states that: No physical or mental torture, nor any other form of coercion, may be inflicted on prisoners of war to secure from them information of any kind whatever,” Alex told the agent in front of him. 

The man (Stooge #2), yet another of the interchangeable agents with another vaguely European accent, jerked in surprise at Alex’s first words since his initial questioning – _how many days ago had that been?_ Alex didn’t know and supposed it didn’t really matter. 

“You are an internationally wanted terrorist, known to have personally murdered at least 10 people,” the agent started, and Alex had to work hard to repress another snort. _10?_ MI6’s intelligence was even worse than Scorpia thought. He didn’t like thinking about it, because the truth was that he didn’t _know_ exactly what the number was; but he was painfully aware that it was a lot higher than 10. 

“You have no rights,” Stooge #2 continued, unaware of Alex’s thoughts, “and you will answer our questions.”

“I will speak to Alan Blunt,” Alex replied. “I know he’s here. You can keep wasting our time if you like, but I won’t answer your questions.”

Alex rolled his eyes and sighed as the agent did indeed decide to keep wasting their time, and continued to attempt to interrogate him. The cutting with the knives stopped at least, though the electrocution that followed made the knives look positively friendly by comparison. Alex was surprised they even opted for electrocution. Twitching limbs and whatnot reeked of those old horror movies set in mental institutions. It really wasn’t very inventive of MI6, he thought tiredly as he tried to stay conscious. Dr Three would be disappointed in them. 

\-------------------------------

A long time later, after the latest attempt at interrogation had finished and Alex had been left alone, the door opened again. Alex lifted his head wearily and his eyes widened as he saw Smithers coming into the room. Smithers looked taken aback at Alex’s condition, and glared at the mirror angrily before sitting near Alex, who was still bound into the chair. 

“Oh Alex my boy, what have they done to you?” Smithers asked sadly. 

“Which they?” Alex replied, looking him steadily in the eyes. Smithers flinched, then nodded. 

“You’re right of course. We treated you terribly. I wish . . . well, I think you know what I wish.”

“Too little, too late,” Alex said bitterly. Smithers winced silently.

“How did you know where you were?” he asked Alex.

“The stench of blackmail seeps from these walls,” Alex replied coolly. “You should leave.” 

“It’s not that easy my boy. I have a duty to my country. To our country.”

“It’s not my country anymore. And I meant you should leave London. Now.”

“Are you threatening me Alex? Me?” Smithers spluttered, taken aback. 

“No. I’m giving you a chance to survive this. You tried to help me once. You were the only one who did. I remember that, and I appreciate it. So leave. Please.” Alex spoke calmly and evenly, his gaze never wavering from Smithers’s eyes. 

His mouth hanging open, Smithers simply stared at Alex. Alex tried to put as much care and warning in his eyes as he could, willing Smithers to listen and to do as he said. Smithers looked back, and then nodded slightly. 

“Will you answer my questions?” he asked Alex. 

“I will speak to Alan Blunt,” Alex replied, looking at the spot on the mirror once again. He ignored Smithers from then on, and eventually the man left, shoulders slumped in dejection. 

\------------------------------------

Dr Three was having a wonderful time. He’d had operatives send the closest MI6 agents to him, and it had been a long time since he’d had so very many subjects available. Being able to conduct so many experiments at the same time was exhilarating. He’d even allowed the latest student in resistance training to finish a day early, just so Crux could participate in his experiments with him. The student was going to pass anyway, so no matter. 

They were making a catalogue about the time it takes a person to die from many different types of injury, while also testing certain theories he had about pain tolerance. That madman Razim may have been a sociopath, but he did good work with his attempts to quantify pain. Dr Three refused to use the name of the pain scale he’d used - _the Razim, what a ridiculous thing to call it_ \- as a matter of principle, but that didn’t stop him from recreating and then extending upon the man’s experiments. 

All in all, Dr Three was in the best mood he’d been in for years. He wished this Holy War would never end. Finally getting the chance to put into action the plan he’d made so very long ago was a dream come true. Orion had done him a favour by being captured by MI6, he really had. He must remember to thank him once he was home again.

\------------------------------------

Jack didn’t quite know what she was supposed to do with herself. Classes had been suspended and the students were sent out to assist operatives in nearby regions with Operation Retaliation. Remembering past experiences with Scorpia operations, Jack had been careful not to ask too many questions about that, though the name itself gave an ominous hint of what it was probably about. Whatever it was, it was huge. She’d heard the teachers talking about suspension of normal operations, and about logistics.

Prior to her new life here at Malagosto, she had never given much thought to logistics, but here, it was almost like a religion. Logistics for movement of operatives, logistics for movement of supplies, logistics for weapons. Half of the cafeteria, being the biggest room available, had been converted into a war room, with pages and pages of documents pinned to moveable room dividers, tables laid out in rows and phones and computers brought in. When the students returned from their missions, they were each assigned to one of the teachers working on the dividers, and instructed to assist and track the operatives listed there in any way required. 

Jack left them to it. She thought about going to see Ivey - his condition was improving slowly, though it would be months until he fully recovered - but then decided against it. He was still in a coma, so wouldn't appreciate the company, and the extent of the bandages, which covered most of his body on account of the widespread burns he had suffered, made her stomach clench with guilt and worry whenever she saw them.

She headed back instead to her room, thinking she may as well use the time to get on top of her studies. Before she could reach it though, she was intercepted by Nile, who had been recalled to base for the duration of the operation. 

“Jack. Here are some boxes, can you take care of your room and Orion’s as well?” Nile asked her brusquely, pushing some flattened cardboard boxes into her arms. 

“What’s happening, what do I need to do?” Jack asked in confusion. 

“We’re moving. This compound is about to become a giant target with a large red cross painted on it, and we need to be gone from here before that happens,” Nile told her. “Get packed as fast as you can. Once you’ve finished both rooms, find me and I’ll assign you another task.”

“Moving? Where are we moving to?” Jack squeaked, but Nile had already vanished down the hallway. 

\------------------------------------

Joe Byrne was worried. Something was up and he didn’t know what it was, and that never made him happy. Scorpia had gone silent on all of their operations in North America - the ones that the CIA knew about, anyway. Drug cartels were suddenly left unattended, smuggling operations had ceased overnight, and known Scorpia agents across the US and in Mexico had seemingly disappeared. He’d put calls into various contacts in intelligence agencies around the world, and they were all reporting the same thing. It was as if the entire organization had decided to take a vacation at the same time. _Where were they all?_

And as if that wasn’t enough, now MI6’s local agents had failed to attend a meeting scheduled for today. 

Joe decided to call Tulip Jones and let her know. He’d been brushed off when he called a few days ago about Scorpia, but this time he was put through immediately. 

“Hello Joe,” Jones greeted him. She sounded exhausted. 

“Tulip. Your agents missed our meeting today.” Joe paused fractionally. “That’s not like them.”

There was a muffled curse down the line. Joe blinked. It wasn't usual to catch the Head of Special Operations losing her cool. This was more serious than it looked. "What's going on?" he asked.

“We captured Alex Rider just over a week ago.”

“ _Alex?_ Is he . . .” Joe paused, not sure he wanted to complete that sentence. Alex might be on the wrong side now, but that didn’t stop him from holding conflicting feelings about the boy. 

“He’s alive. Blunt’s been trying to interrogate him about Scorpia. Trying, and failing.” Jones sighed.

Joe recalled his impressions of Alex from their last meeting. His obvious importance to Scorpia. MI6 thought they had captured Alex Rider. They had no idea what Orion was capable of. Joe didn’t even want to _think_ about what Scorpia’s reaction would be. 

“You’re making a mistake Jones,” Joe told her urgently. “You need to let him go. We’ve lost track of all Scorpia operatives in the United States, and in Mexico. They’ve all vanished, and it started just under a week ago. Something big is happening.”

“We know. It’s worse than that. We’ve lost contact with MI6 agents all over the world. They’re just . . . gone. No bodies. No contact. Just, gone.”

Joe was speechless. It was unheard of, losing contact with so many agents all at once. He mumbled out some sort of end to the conversation, his mind whirling with the implications. One thought kept rising to the surface – he was glad it wasn’t the CIA who’d captured Alex Rider. 

\------------------------------------

Yassen Gregorovich stood at Calais, glaring across the ocean to Dover as if he could make the ferry he was standing on move faster through sheer willpower alone. He had understood the need to wait, understood the time needed to allow Dr Three’s ‘Holy War’ to get underway, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. 

Alex was in the hands of MI6 and it made Yassen’s skin crawl to think about what he might be enduring. He knew Alex could handle interrogation; their training had made sure of that. But if those bastards managed to turn him against Yassen, against Scorpia . . . Yassen didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He had never permitted himself to acknowledge the true feelings he had for Alex, not even deep within his own heart. This situation, Alex gone, was eroding his self control like nothing had before. He wanted to tear MI6 apart. He wanted Alex back. 

“I am coming malen’kiy Aleks, I am coming,” Yassen whispered to the wind, permitting himself the pet name for Alex that he had kept locked in his heart until now. “I am coming.”

He thought he would probably tear them apart anyway, for the insult of them taking what was his. 

Yassen entered England in the company of Danube. Azov, Baikal and Sagitta (minus Ivey) had either already entered the country, or would do so the same day or the next. Each team had their assignment and could be trusted to complete it before meeting at the rendezvous point at the scheduled time. Operation Retrieval was finally underway. 

\------------------------------------

Alex was beginning to feel the first effects of starvation. He was irritable, in pain and tired, and couldn’t stop thinking about food. _How long ago did I have the fish and chips? It tasted so good. God I’m so hungry. I’d eat anything right now. Anything at all. Even a salad._ As usual he had no idea what time it was. He’d been let out of the chair and escorted to the bathroom, and he’d even been given water to drink, but then he’d been shackled into the chair once more. That probably meant more interrogation, he thought resignedly. 

When the door finally opened however, it was Blunt that entered. The man himself, at last. Alex looked at him, noting the increase in grey hairs, and the lines of tension around his eyes. Blunt hadn’t aged well in the last few years, and seemed to be under considerable stress as well. His hands had a slight tremor to them, and he grunted softly when he sat down. Ruthlessly suppressing the vindictive twinge of satisfaction, lest it be shown in his face, Alex tried to pull his scattered thoughts together and waited somewhat calmly, staring at Blunt. 

Blunt stared back for a while, then sighed, visibly giving up the battle of wills. 

“Alex. What is Scorpia doing?”

“ _Blunt_. You made a mistake,” Alex snarled, in a very different tone to any he’d used when speaking to any of the other personnel that he had spoken with before. Blunt started, then stared at Alex coldly. 

“What is Scorpia doing?” he repeated, more forcefully this time. 

“What did you think, when you sent after me after Sayle? Were you ever concerned about my safety?” Alex ground out. Blunt opened his mouth and started to speak, only for Alex to cut him off. 

“Did you ever worry that I might be captured – or die? Did you ever care? Or was I just another useful asset to you? One that could be tossed away when my usefulness ran out. One that could be denied if anyone ever learnt about what you made me do. After all, you never even paid me. Easy to deny the existence of someone who wasn’t even on the payroll,” Alex spat. 

He clenched his fists, his entire body taut with tension, straining without conscious thought at his restraints, as the desire to throttle the man sitting in front of him rose in him unexpectedly. Years of training control into him by Yassen vanished as pure rage took over, and for the first time in his life, Alex wanted to kill someone. 

Alex wanted to kill Alan Blunt, personally and with great attention to detail, in the slowest way possible. He wanted to make him suffer, like Alex had suffered. He wanted to make Blunt pay, for the pain he’d caused Alex, and Jack, and Tom. To pay for the way that Ian had died, and John, and Helen. He wanted to tear Blunt apart, limb from limb with his bare hands. 

Blunt shifted his chair backwards a few inches. Alex noted it with another jolt of savage satisfaction. He knew what Blunt was thinking - that the mild teenager he'd expected had vanished, replaced with a deadly Scorpia operative, vibrating with fury. Alex wasn’t even trying to get out of his restraints, yet he was sure that he had frightened Blunt suddenly. He let the all encompassing rage that he was feeling towards Blunt to show clearly in his eyes, as he stared steadily into Blunt’s own. He allowed his wrath, his inherent ferocity to be seen, casting aside the act of an innocent teenage boy with useful skills. Alex allowed Orion, Yassen Gregorovich’s apprentice, to manifest, his desire to remove Blunt from existence obvious in every aspect of his bearing. 

Blunt was silent, but the flicker in his expression told Alex that he knew he had made a mistake; that he never should have brought him here. He was not the head of MI6 for nothing however, and Alex was unsurprised when he tried again. 

“What is Scorpia’s plan?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Alex bit out. “But I hope they burn you all down to the hell that you belong in.” He spat in Blunt’s face.

Blunt jerked backwards, before stumbling to his feet. It was obvious he was trying to stay calm and failing miserably. It was the first time Alex had ever seen his stony facade crack. They stared at one another for several seconds, before Blunt turned and walked quickly from the room. 

Alex sat back in his chair, breathing deeply. _God,_ _that felt good. Better than therapy._ He didn’t get long to savour his victory though. The door banged open and Blunt returned. This time, he was accompanied by another agent. _Stooge #3! I got the full set!_ Alex thought a little crazily.

Blunt was also carrying a set of pliers. Alex stilled, watching them both warily. He wasn’t sure he liked the turn this was taking.

“Handy little tool,” Blunt observed. “It’s called a Big Mouth Strong Grip Pliers. Note the crank handle. It allows you to open and close the pliers’ jaws as fast or as slow as you like. This lever lets you lock them closed and leave them in place. They even have non-slip grip on the handles. Very practical, very versatile.” The calm manner in which Blunt spoke, so soon after his hasty exit, was unnerving. 

Blunt passed the pliers to the agent that had accompanied him back into the room, and ordered, “His right hand.”

The agent hesitated, “He's just a kid… sir?” Blunt stared coldly at the man, unspeaking, and raised an eyebrow. Repressing a shudder, the agent stepped over to Alex and placed the mouth of the pliers over and under his right hand, positioning it so that the end of the jaws was in the centre of Alex’s hand. He looked at Blunt, and upon receiving a nod, started winding the crank closed. 

At first, the pressure was simply tight and uncomfortable, but very quickly the pain began. The pressure spread from the centre of Alex’s hand along the length of the pliers to the edge as the full length of the jaws began to bear down. Alex gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, looking away as the crank was relentlessly turned, slowly and steadily. Bile rose in Alex’s throat with the sound of a sudden crack reverberated through the room. He gasped, tears springing involuntarily to his eyes, at the intense pain in his hand. Tingling shot up through his wrist and arm, and he thought he might throw up. 

Blunt stepped over, flicked the lever and left the pliers locked onto Alex’s hand, before stepping back again and smiling slightly. The agent stood to the side, looking ill. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we? What is Scorpia doing?”

\------------------------------------

Tulip Jones finished going over her latest series of reports on the missing agents with Ben Daniels. They’d been at it for much longer than expected, there were so many to go through. She stood, stretching, and motioned to Daniels to gather their summary notes. 

“Let’s go and take these to Blunt. It’s time to update him.”

Blunt’s door was wide open, the man nowhere to be seen. They asked around the floor, not getting any answers until at last someone said: “Blunt? He’s interrogating the prisoner. Been there for hours.”

Jones and Daniels looked at each other in horror, before turning and hurrying towards the basement. When they reached that floor, Jones saw that her guards had been replaced by others, ones she didn’t know as well, or trust. She glared at them, about to demand an explanation, when a piercing scream cut through the air. Ben was suddenly pushing past her, shoving the guards out of the way, as he forced his way through the door. Jones followed, her concern for Alex rising abruptly.

Ben Daniels burst into the room in a rush, then suddenly stopped in shock. Jones bumped into his back as she tried to follow, then stepped to the side. The scene before them would remain etched in their minds for the rest of their lives. 

Alex was slumped unconscious in the chair that he was bound in, his head flopped downwards. Still filthy from the bomb attack after which he’d been captured, he was now also covered in bloody cuts of varying length and depth, bruises of different colour and size, and most horrifyingly, there was some sort of tool attached to the pointer finger of his right hand. The rest of his hand was swollen horrendously, deep bruising covering the entire surface of the hand and all the fingers as well. It looked like a grotesque party balloon, not like a hand. 

“What have you done?” Jones shouted at Blunt, rounding on him. The small woman seemed to inflate in size as she advanced on him, her ire causing Blunt to inadvertently take a step back. 

“Have you lost your mind? Alex might be a terrorist but we are still bound by the Geneva Conventions. You have gone too far Blunt. Too far.” 

Ben ignored the pair, going to Alex and carefully looking at his hand. _This never should have been done to a kid_ , he thought in pity, _but at least he won't be firing a gun anymore. This might be the shove the kid needs to get out of this life for good._ He reached out and began unwinding the crank on the pliers, working as fast as he could to remove it. Alex moaned, his head lolling to the side as he came to, blinking groggily up at Ben.

“Alex….” Ben started, “He should never have done this to you.” The soft voice and harsh anger, so at odds with each other in his tone, helped Alex focus as he realized who was speaking. 

“F- Fox?” The weak voice caused a sharp pain to stab through Ben’s heart. It was nothing like the calm, confident tones of the Scorpia operative he’d last seen on Santa Catarina island, the operative who’d allowed him to escape instead of shooting him. Alex may be the enemy now, he may have chosen the wrong side, but in Ben’s heart he was still Cub, the kid who’d kept up with them in training, who’d never complained, who never gave up. The kid who he’d later learned had been forced into this life. Forced by _Blunt_ , who had just destroyed Alex’s hand. As if he wasn’t happy with everything else that he’d taken from the boy already, now he had to maim him for life as well. 

Ben Daniels stood up and rounded on Blunt, fists clenched as he stalked towards his superior. He had no idea what he was going to do, but it was going to hurt, he knew that. Surprised to find the pliers still in his hand, he looked from them to Blunt’s head appraisingly. Jones saw him coming and stepped out of his way, going to Alex’s side and murmuring apologies to him. Blunt squawked unbecomingly, and the guards in the hallway rushed in, placing themselves between Blunt and Daniels.

Ben glared, his anger evident as he ordered the guards to get Blunt out of there. Surprisingly, they obeyed. Having had to stand outside the room for hours, listening to Alex’s screams while Blunt brutally tortured a 16 year old boy, had not sat well with any of them, regardless of their orders. 

As Ben followed Blunt and the guards out, he looked back and saw that Alex had passed out again. Jones stopped him, quietly telling him “I’m calling medical. I’ll stay with him until they arrive.” Nodding, Ben left the room, wondering what he could possibly do to make this right.

\------------------------------------


	3. Chapter 3

The Gentlemen’s Grand Final at Wimbledon in London began at 2pm on Sunday, July 11th. 15,000 spectators were in attendance, with a further 6.5 million watching the coverage live on BBC and ESPN’s affiliated networks worldwide.

In attendance in the Royal Box were the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, the Prime Minister and his wife, and Prince Albert II of Monaco. The actors Daniel Craig, Pierce Brosnan, Tom Holland and Otto Farrant also attended, as well as the speaker of the House of Commons and several other, lesser known celebrities. Various international ambassadors, diplomats and members of foreign royal families were also sitting in the Royal Box.

The World Number One was successfully defending his title 1 hour and 27 minutes into the match, when a Chinook helicopter flew over Centre Court and hovered. Play was broken off by both players as they gazed upwards in confusion, spectators also staring. Media cameras zoomed in on the large tandem rotor helicopter as commentators speculated on what may be occurring. Security personnel for those in the Royal Box were already scrambling to evacuate their charges, aware that this was not scheduled entertainment. 

At precisely 3.30pm, the Chinook tilted slightly upwards, its large rear door opened, and bodies began to tumble out. A few at first, then more and more, and suddenly hundreds and hundreds of bodies were falling from the sky onto Centre Court. Some of the initial bodies bounced, or burst upon impact, adding to the revulsion and horror experienced by those present. The bodies were not all whole, either. There were many different body parts, and those scattered around the outskirts as they fell. In many instances they hit spectators, increasing the pitch and frequency of screaming by those who, having been enjoying the outing of their life only moments before, were now suddenly being rained upon by bloody, detached limbs of various types. The smell of dead bodies, and the thuds of them hitting the ground, would serve as nightmare fodder for years to come. 

Complete and utter pandemonium erupted below, as 15,000 individuals all tried to flee at once. People were trampled, children were separated from their parents and even the royals and celebrities in attendance were on their own as their security were unable to get to them against the panicked crowd. Several people died at the scene, mostly from crush injuries, though a few of the older spectators went into cardiac arrest. 

Television coverage streamed the whole event live to millions of viewers, who watched on in shock and horror, unable to look away. Centre Court was completely covered in bodies, and not a single one alive. Broadcasters rushed to cut the footage, but it was too late, the world had already seen the carnage. 

Six minutes after it first appeared, the Chinook rose into the air again and turned west towards Heathrow Airport, flying ponderously away. Several of the media helicopters, which had backed off when the Chinook first appeared, started to follow it. They only made it a short distance when two of the media choppers towards the front turned sideways, and machine guns appeared in their open doors. Bullets whined as they were fired upon the other helicopters, which abruptly veered away in a desperate attempt to avoid being shot. One was hit and went down in an uncontrolled descent, crashing into a nearby school (thankfully empty at the time), before exploding into a ball of flame. The rest of the pack opted against pursuit, and the Chinook and its two escorts vanished into the distance. 

\------------------------------------

Blunt and Jones arrived on the scene within the hour, and met with MI5 agents and all the other security forces and police on site. Jones wasn’t speaking to Blunt, but duty required her to be there with him. 

“You might want to brace yourself Ma’am,” a policeman told Jones as they passed through the security cordon and entered the tunnel leading into the court. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Jones nodded in thanks, taking the forensic gloves offered, and continued in after Blunt. Various military personnel passed by on their way out, Jones noting how pale they looked with mild apprehension. 

Once at the edge of Centre Court, they stopped and stared. They had seen the footage of course, and knew what to expect, or so they thought. What lay before them was even worse than they had anticipated. There were bodies everywhere, or parts of bodies. The majority of the bodies appeared to be whole, but scattered throughout were various arms, legs, hands and feet, and several heads. There was at least one body that was only the bottom half. Jones gagged slightly when she saw the intestines hanging out of that one, draped across an unattached head nearby and another body next to it. 

Stepping closer, Blunt and Jones both noticed certain peculiarities about the bodies. There was no discernible nationality in common amongst them, and no easily apparent pattern to skin colour, facial features, clothing or gender. Just from the side they were standing on alone, they could see Caucasian, European, Chinese, African American, Asian, Indian, and Arabic bodies. 

“What is that?” Jones muttered, stepping forward and pointing. A policeman nearby heard her and came over to them, looking at the words carved into the flesh of the body before them. 

“It’s a message,” he explained helpfully. “We’ve found one on every body so far, in some form or another. The ones in English say ‘Give him back’. I don’t speak any other languages but someone else here confirmed that the ones in French and Spanish say the same thing.”

Blunt and Jones looked at each other silently. They both knew who the message meant. They turned and walked back towards the tunnel entrance, Blunt suddenly stopping before they got there. 

“That man. I know him. It’s Dalton. MI6. He was in Pakistan.” He swore under his breath, and stormed off, Jones hurrying to catch up to him as he returned to the car, ordering them to return to the Liverpool Street offices. 

Every forensic pathologist was called in from all over the Greater London area to assist with the examination of the bodies, the latest count being over 1,437 and still rising. MI6 sent all of their Human Resources personnel over to Wimbledon to see if they could identify any other agents amongst the dead. London went into voluntary lock down, its citizens huddling inside in fear of another horrifying attack. 

Reports came in that the three helicopters used in the attack had been found. They were on the top floor of a multi-storey car park only a few miles away from Wimbledon, and had all exploded. They were found when police and firemen arrived at the blazes. They had been landed without regard for the cars parked there, the Chinook actually landing on top of several in the footage viewed by investigators. Witnesses reported a number of figures wearing black combat uniforms getting into two vehicles parked in the lower levels of the car park before leaving. CCTV was still being reviewed in the hopes of tracking them down. 

A further report found that the Chinook had come from RAF Odiham. Two pilots, in correct uniform and with identification, had presented at the base the night before with orders to move the Chinook from RAF Odiham to RAF Halton for training purposes. The orders were checked and found to be in order, and the Chinook released. RAF Odiham hadn’t even known anything was amiss until personnel had seen the media footage of the attack. The other two, smaller helicopters, were found to have been rented the day before. Corporate retreat was the reason given. Both matters were being investigated further. 

The worldwide media was having an absolute field day. It had been years since a terrorist attack of this magnitude had occurred, and business was booming as a result. Reporters from every media network were breathless as they struggled to beat each other to be the first to report updates, online media was melting down, and many media websites simply crashed under the onslaught of people trying to find out what the hell had happened at Wimbledon. 

Fights broke out, as supporters of the defending world tennis champion declared the match in his favour, and supporters of his opponent denied it. Social media went into a frenzy, the arguments regarding the outcome of the match almost matching the spiralling conspiracy theories regarding the attack in the speed in which both went viral. 

Everyone wanted to know. Who were all the people that had been murdered? Who had done it? Why? And who won Wimbledon?

\------------------------------------

An emergency session of COBRA was called at Downing Street that evening in response to the attack. It was attended by the Prime Minister, and members of the National Security Secretariat – the Deputy National Security Adviser (DNSA) for Foreign and Defence Policy; the DNSA for Intelligence, Security & Resilience, and the DNSA for Intelligence, Security and Resilience. The Prime Minister sat in the centre of the table, to his right several Senior Ministers, then the Mayor of London, who looked unusually pale and uncertain.

Also present were members of the [Civil Contingencies Secretariat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Contingencies_Secretariat), Security and Intelligence, the Office of Cyber Security and Information Assurance, and the UK Computer Emergency Response Team, as were several Senior Ministers, the City Mayor, and the Chief Police Commissioner. Tulip Jones, John Crawley and Ben Daniels were there on behalf of MI6, Daniels having simply attached himself to Jones and refusing to move, and the top brass of MI5 were in attendance as well. 

The Queen’s Private Secretary and a Captain of the Queen’s Guard also attended, stating for the record that they were there simply to observe on the Queen’s behalf, seeing as members of her family had been caught up in the attack. 

The meeting had just been called to order when the UK’s Chief Medical Officer and Alan Blunt entered together, having just come from a debriefing about the bodies used in the attack. Their presence was noted in the minutes, and the meeting got underway. 

The Chief Medical Officer was called upon to give the latest report that he’d just received, and stood at the lectern, clearing his throat before he began. 

“At precisely 3.30pm today, Sunday, July 11, a Chinook helicopter dropped approximately

two thousand, five hundred and seventy-eight bodies onto Centre Court at the All England Club at Wimbledon. Matching of detached body parts to bodies is still underway, and there are many parts that don’t appear to have a body to be matched to. There are also several more heads than there are bodies missing them, for example, so while we are fairly confident that that is the final number, it may change slightly. 

“The lack of blood spray indicates that the bodies have been deceased for some time. Rigor mortis is clearly evident in some of them, indicating death occurred within the last two days; however, others have been deceased for much longer. None appear to have been deceased for more than one week. We will be able to pinpoint that more accurately given more time. 

“The manner of death varies from person to person and there are many yet unidentified. There are too many to detail here now, so I will just list the immediately obvious ones. I warn you, this is not a pleasant list. 

“A short summary of some of the causes of death thus far identified, in no particular order – gunshot wounds, both singular and plural; laceration of the throat; cyanide poisoning; broken neck; amputation; exsanguination; strangulation; stabbing; drug overdose; beheading; blunt force trauma; burned by acid; burned by fire; burned by electricity; skinning; and impalement.”

The Medical Officer paused to allow the audible gasping, and in one case retching sounds, to quiet down, before he continued. 

“There is no pattern to the method of death. There are several more complicated methods evident as well as the simpler ones I just listed. One body appears to have suffered Ling Chi – the thousand cuts torture. Another appears to have been drawn and quartered, however we have so far only found two limbs matching the body displaying ligature marks and dislocations on the limbs. One body has nothing more than a pencil impaled through the eye into the brain. Others are missing vital organs – heart, brain, lungs and so on. 

“Perhaps most disturbing, there is one body that has had all its bones and organs removed, without any cuts to his skin. We have no idea how this was achieved, but we sincerely hope that the person subjected to that was deceased before it occurred. He may not have been.”

A momentary recess was called as several people abruptly fled the room, holding their hands over their mouths. Jones took the opportunity to ask Blunt quietly: “Dr Three?”

“I expect so,” Blunt answered. “Who else would be capable of such a thing?”

Soon after, order had been restored and everyone was again in their places. Blunt stepped up to the lectern. 

“Every single body delivered had a message on it. Some were written in marker or pen onto the skin. Some were carved into the skin. Some were painted. Some were tattooed. Others were written or typed onto various types of paper. There is no pattern to the location or way in which the message was inscribed, and none of the handwriting appears to match any other. 

There was a wide variety of languages used. To briefly list a few of them – Arabic, Bosnian, Chinese, English, French, German, Italian, Korean, Libyan, [Nigeria](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nigeria)n, Pakistani, Russian, [Saudi Arabia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudi_Arabia)n, and Vietnamese. There are many, many more. 

“They all say the same thing. Give him back.” Blunt paused, and took a sip of water. 

“Mr Blunt, do you know who the messages refer to?” asked the Prime Minister. The room was silent, awaiting his next words. 

“Yes, we do,” Blunt replied. “Eleven days ago we captured a high ranking Scorpia operative in Abu Dhabi. Shortly thereafter, we began losing contact with MI6 agents in all countries around the world. We have been unable to regain contact with any of them. At the same time, Scorpia operations worldwide were abandoned and those operatives we knew of vanished.”

“How many agents have you lost contact with?” the Prime Minister asked. 

“Two thousand, five hundred and ninety,” Blunt stated. Audible intakes of breath and sharp gasps were heard around the room from several members, as they stared at Blunt. 

“Are you telling us that all of those people that have been murdered so callously, so brutally, that they are all MI6 agents?” the Prime Minister asked in disbelief. 

“Yes. It appears so. We have identified several hundred of them, and each one so far identified is an MI6 agent,” Blunt answered, his shoulders slumping and his head bowing. 

The DNSA for Intelligence shot to his feet and glared at Blunt. “Why was I not informed of this? How could you have lost that many agents? What kind of operation are you people running over there?” he demanded angrily.

“Sir, control yourself,” the Prime Minister admonished him, before continuing. “Blunt, tell us who this Scorpia operative is. Who on earth could be so important to them that they would retaliate in this way?”

“His name is Alex Rider. He is a former MI6 agent who defected to Scorpia a few years ago. Since then he has been responsible for . . .” Alan Blunt continued with the debriefing, informing the room of the history and activities of Alex Rider. He did not, however, mention Alex’s age, nor the age at which he was recruited by MI6, nor the manner in which they recruited him. 

The Prime Minister stood once Blunt had finished speaking. 

“In light of the extraordinary circumstances that have occurred today, I’d like to propose that we immediately release this Alex Rider.” He held his hands up placatingly to the room as outbursts erupted. 

“I know, I know, this isn’t the way that these matters are customarily handled. However, this is unprecedented. If these Scorpia people are willing to commit such acts on United Kingdoms service men and women, what will they do next if we don’t release him? Or God forbid, if we kill him? We cannot in good conscious allow the risk of further atrocities against our citizens. What if they target civilians next? I say we call a vote on this matter immediately.” 

The subsequent vote went in his favour. Alan Blunt was dispatched to arrange the release of Alex Rider, Tulip Jones accompanying him to ensure the matter went smoothly. After they left, Ben Daniels stood and requested the floor. 

“Sirs and Ma’am’s, I’d like to add some further comments about Alex Rider. Vital information about this agent was left out of the briefing you just heard, and I’d like to rectify that.”

\------------------------------------

Alex had regained consciousness some time before, and the seriousness of his circumstances had hit him at last. His hand felt worse than any other injury he’d ever received before, worse even then the time he’d been shot in the chest. Hot, and tight, swollen and throbbing, stabbing and tingling all at the same time. He couldn’t see it, someone apparently having wrapped it while he was out cold, but he could see the swelling under the bloodied bandage and it didn’t look good. How many bones had Blunt broken? Alex had tried to keep count, but the cracking sounds had all seemed to merge into one long echo of agony after a while. _I may never use this hand again,_ Alex thought, and swallowed at what that would mean. Yassen almost certainly had no use for a second who was a cripple. _Oh God, he won't want me anymore._

The thought was too painful to contemplate. Instead, Alex returned to assessing his condition.

Lying on the ground, where he’d apparently been left after his hand was wrapped, he shifted slightly, gasping in pain as the shackles on his wrists bumped against his hand, agony flaring and causing the world to grey out briefly. 

He was having trouble thinking clearly, the prolonged starvation combining with his other injuries to affect his thoughts, and he struggled to clear his mind. He was starting to become slightly concerned about how long it was taking Yassen to get him out of here. He thought it had been about a week, maybe a bit longer, since the bombing. The gnawing hunger pains, so urgent the first few days, had settled down into a muted roar in his guts, always present but pushed aside now by the throbbing of his hand. 

Alex was considering his options when the door abruptly opened. Jones entered the room, followed by four guards. 

“We’re releasing you, Alex.” Jones spoke crisply as a guard lifted him to his feet and another knelt to unlock his ankle shackles. 

“Wh – what?” Alex stammered in surprise. He had not been expecting this. 

“There have been developments. You are free to go, by order of COBRA and the Prime Minister.”

 _This isn’t right_ Alex thought. _MI6 would never let me go_. _Panik!_ flashed incongruously through his mind as his flight or fight reflex was triggered. _Oh God, they’re not letting me go, they’re going to execute me!_

The guard in front of him finished removing the shackles and stood and turned to leave, the guard behind taking him by the arm. The other two remained inside the door with Jones. Alex swayed from side to side, then stumbled into the man before him, using his momentum to grab the man’s gun. His fumbling was clumsy, pain and starvation working against him, but he had the element of surprise and there was a gun in his hand before anyone had managed to react. In seconds Alex was firing instinctively, and almost instantly all four guards fell to the floor, each shot in the head. Alex stood with the gun shaking slightly in his left hand, pointing at Jones’ face. The speed and deadliness with which he had moved suddenly evaporated, and he wavered on his feet, the cost of his numerous injuries making itself known once again.

“Move and you die,” Orion’s voice ordered. Jones blanched, and froze. Alex staggered over to the door and closed it, then waved in the direction of the chair. “Sit down.” He kicked the key to the shackles across the floor, and approached Jones, holding the gun against her forehead as he tried to stabilise the shaking in his hand.

“Unlock my wrists, one at a time. _Carefully_. Then put the shackles on your own wrists.”

Her hands trembling, Jones did so. Orion then put the leg shackles on her as well, moving clumsily as he tried to avoid bumping his hand. He picked up the key to the shackles, almost falling over as he did so. 

“Alex, what are you doing? We were releasing you, don’t you understand?” He ignored her, going over to the door and cautiously opening it. There was a hallway outside, leading past the observation room and another open door, with the stairwell exit at the end. The opposite end of the hall had only the bathroom, which he’d already seen.

Alex moved as quickly as he could along the hallway, which wasn’t quickly at all, checking each room as he went. The open room on the end appeared to be a kitchen, with chairs, a table, cupboards and filing cabinets along the walls. He listened at the door leading to the stairs for a moment, and hearing nothing, started shifting the furniture over in front of it, cursing as he bumped his damaged hand multiple times. A short time later he had created a barricade that he was reasonably happy with. It wouldn’t stop a serious attempt at entry, but it would slow them down, and anyone trying to get through would create a large amount of noise, alerting him if he was asleep. It was the best he could do in his current condition. He could feel that his energy reserves were almost exhausted. 

Finding a broom in the kitchen, Alex methodically covered the entire basement, pointing every camera up at the ceiling as he went – all except the one in the room with Jones. That he left, so the watchers above could see that she was still alive. He was fairly sure they’d leave him alone as long as he left her alone. 

Once back in the room with Jones, Alex used one of the guards belts, still keeping the gun trained on Jones, to strap her into the chair. Making sure there was nothing that she could possibly reach, Alex left the room. He went into the observation room next door, half falling against the corner of the back wall, and tried to get comfortable. The exhaustion he was feeling ran bone deep. He was honestly surprised that he’d been able to take out all the guards, he felt so lethargic and clumsy. Perhaps an adrenaline surge had counteracted the effects that starvation was taking on his body. There was more he needed to do, but for now he was done. He couldn’t continue.

_What will I do if Yassen doesn’t want me anymore?_ drifted through his mind as he fell asleep. 

\------------------------------------

Waking suddenly, Alex remained still, assessing, recalling the events of - _last night?_ He had no idea how long he’d slept. He was still alive, anyway, so Jones hadn’t escaped. Moving slowly and carefully, Alex poked his head into the next room and confirmed that Jones was still there. He then went and searched the four bodies for any tools, weapons or anything else he thought might be useful. One of the guards had some paracetamol in his pocket, for which Alex was extremely grateful. He’d been unable to protect his hand properly during his searching, and the pain had been increasing rapidly, making it hard to think. 

Choosing the smallest guard, Alex removed his shoes, pants and shirt, pleased to find a light ballistics vest under that last, then dragged the bodies out into the hallway. Being dressed again made him feel a little better, and having an assortment of weapons, even if they were only standard Glocks, gave him a sense of satisfaction. 

Getting himself a glass of water, Alex found a small fridge in the kitchen. It was empty apart from some milk that didn’t smell too bad, but the freezer was fully stocked with an assortment of tv dinner meals. He promptly stuck one into the microwave nearby and started it cooking. A few minutes later Alex walked slowly back into Jones’ room, carrying his glass of water and his meal awkwardly in his left hand, and gratefully sat down into the second chair, ready to enjoy his first meal in over a week. 

“Alex,” Jones said. He ignored her, savouring the heady taste of beef and gravy. After taking a few small bites, Alex reluctantly put his meal aside. He knew he needed to eat small portions after being starved for so long. It was more difficult to put the food aside than it had been to shoot all four guards, and Alex shuddered slightly as it occurred to him that Yassen would be proud. Taking a sip of water, Alex looked at Jones. 

“What are your intentions?” Jones asked. “We were letting you go!”

Shrugging, Alex answered. “Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. It’s peaceful down here. And I have unfinished business with MI6.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Mrs Jones asked him, her voice shaking only slightly. She had seen four men shot in front of her, by a boy she’d had a hand in creating. He hadn’t even looked at them as he shot them, yet he hit every single one in the head, with his non-dominant hand, while injured in one of the most horrific ways she had ever seen. It had happened so quickly the guards hadn’t even had time to draw their weapons against him. 

“Probably not. You don’t deserve the peace that would give you,” Alex told her coldly. “Now, what day is it?”

Alex was a little surprised when she told him it was the 12th. He hadn’t thought he’d been here that long. After completing another inspection of the floor, checking for anything he’d missed the first time, he moved his chair out of sight of the last working camera and ate some more. One of the guards iPhone wasn’t password locked, and he settled down to catch up on current affairs and relax. The top news stories of course, were all about the terrorist attack on Wimbledon the day before. He read through them with horror, the details making him feel nauseous and his meal threatening to return violently and abruptly. Switching the phone off, he looked over at Mrs Jones. 

“That’s why you were letting me go, isn’t it. Wimbledon.”

She nodded. “The Prime Minister doesn’t want to risk anymore attacks.”

“And what about Blunt? I noticed that he didn’t come to let me out, he sent you.”

“I sent myself. I wanted to talk to you, to let you know –“

“Know what?” Alex cut her off. “Know that you’re _sorry_? That you regret what you did to me? Too little too late. Your words are worthless to me.”

“Alex -” 

“NO!” He cut her off again. “Don’t waste my time.”

Alex left Jones there once more, settling onto the viewing room again to rest as he waited for something else to happen. Yassen would be coming. _He doesn’t know I’m a cripple now._ Alex thought tiredly as he started to fall asleep again. _He’ll still come for me. I hope . . ._

\------------------------------------


	4. Chapter 4

While Alex slept, every MI6 safe house in the world was destroyed at the same time, exactly 24 hours after the Wimbledon incident. The world reacted predictably enough. Panicking civilians went into lockdown in their homes. Police mobilised along with military personnel. No one knew what was happening and they were terrified of what might happen next. 

It was a worldwide event this time, not just London. It appeared that less people had died, but the effect on the world's sense of security was much greater. When the news came out, confirming what the targets had been, COBRA was convened again and Blunt was summoned once more. 

“What do you mean, he refused to leave?” the Prime Minister demanded in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”

Blunt sighed, dragging a hair through his hair. Normally immaculate, it was now dishevelled and awry, reflecting his state of mind. Recent events had not been kind to him, and he was regretting not retiring sooner. 

“I don’t know. He always was an obstinate fellow. Very contrary.”

“Perhaps that was because you blackmailed him into becoming an agent against his will, when he was 14 years old?” the Prime Minister retorted angrily. 

Blunt froze. He hadn’t told them that. _How did they know?_ He looked around the room and saw Ben Daniels, smiling slightly. _That bastard. That traitor!_

“We expect your resignation on our desk forthwith,” the Prime Minister informed him frostily, and he was escorted from the room. 

Yassen watched as Blunt’s car returned to the garage below the Royal & General Bank in Liverpool Street. He, along with Danube, Sagitta and Ussuri (recalled from Hyde in Australia for the duration) had been positioned in various buildings on all sides of the building for four days. 

Azov and Baikal had completed their mission with the helicopters beautifully, and were busy obtaining the materials needed for the next step. When they were finished the final phase could begin. 

The men watched from a variety of heights and different buildings, some closer and some further away. The technical experts from each of the teams had found an unused office space two buildings down from the bank, and had hacked into the security networks within the first day. Yassen called them for a report. 

“Something is different. We think they are watching Alex, but the cameras in the section he is in are on a different system that we haven’t been able to access. It’s almost like they’ve frozen. There’s a lot of yelling but not a lot of action.”

A second voice cut into the conversation. “Blunt just went into his office and slammed the door. Now he is just sitting at his desk. He isn’t doing anything, just sitting there.”

A few hours later, the building emptied of most of the agents for the night as the day ended. Blunt also left, and they didn’t bother following him again. He wasn’t their target. 

It was later yet when Azov and Baikal called and reported that they were ready. 

“Tomorrow then?” their commander asked Yassen.

“Tomorrow.” Yassen confirmed. 

\------------------------------------

Tomorrow arrived. The teams were in position. They’d received a package of several canisters from Azov in the early hours, and were preparing to complete Operation ‘Retrieval’. 

Just after 2.30pm, a gas began pumping through the ventilation system of the Royal & General Bank. Ussuri monitored the aerosol anaesthetic as it flowed through the air conditioning system from several outside points of entrance where they had installed the canisters overnight. 

The gas made its way slowly into the building, taking more than thirty minutes to circulate through to every floor, and for the full effects to be visible over the hacked security network. MI6 agents were slumped unconscious everywhere. Some had simply put their heads down on their desks, others had fallen from where they were standing or walking. Blunt, who had returned to the building that morning, succumbed to the gas in his office, alone. 

Yassen, Danube and Sagitta teams commenced the physical assault on the building once the gas had taken full effect. They were all wearing gas masks, the silence and lack of movement as they entered creating an eerie atmosphere. Jarek and one Danube team member made their way upstairs, stepping over any bodies they passed along the way. The rest of both teams, along with Yassen, immediately made their way to the basement. One member of each team stayed behind to guard the top of the stairs, while the others continued down. 

They found the door to the lowest levels easily enough. But it was closed, and, when Marcus pushed his shoulder against the door, it wouldn't budge.

"Feels like it's barricaded from within," he muttered. He moved away as Adams moved forward. They'd planned for this. Adams attached a small amount of C-4 and detonation cap to each of the four corners of the door. The whole group retreated back up the stairs before Shale detonated the device. The resulting explosive roar echoed up the stairwell and into the silent building above.

The door had obligingly been blown open and most of the furniture stacked behind it either destroyed or shoved back by the explosion. The group made their way quickly inside, Yassen in between Sagitta in the front, and Danube at the back. Black smoke billowed around, making visibility difficult, and the group saw the four dead guards stacked haphazardly on each other in the hallway and hesitated. Each had obvious bullet holes in their heads. It was clear they hadn’t died due to the door imploding. One had been undressed. 

Clearing the kitchenette and the observation rooms in short order, they soon found Alex in the third room, lying on his side on the floor near Mrs Jones, who was still tied in the chair. Both were unconscious. 

Yassen felt like his heart would stop when he saw Alex lying sprawled out on the floor. He was filthy, covered in blood and soot. Multiple lacerations, burns and bruises could be seen on all of his exposed skin, and Yassen knew that there would be more under the clothes that Alex was wearing. Alarmingly, Alex’s face was gaunt, his cheekbones far more prominent than they ever had been before. A warm spark of pride ignited in his chest when Yassen saw that, even unconscious, Alex was still holding a gun in his almost skeletal left hand. His right arm was curled protectively up against his chest, a huge bandage covering his entire hand. 

Mace quickly knelt and checked Alex’s vitals, then confirmed with a nod to Yassen that he was still breathing. He placed the spare respirator over Alex’s head, adjusting it carefully. Yassen then picked Alex up, feeling with dismay how light he was, and carried him carefully out of the room in a fireman’s carry. Marcus did the same with Mrs Jones after removing the belts attaching her to the chair. They didn’t give her a respirator. 

The teams met at their rendezvous on the garage floor less than fifteen minutes after entering the building, Jarek and his partner arriving with an unconscious Alan Blunt and Ben Daniels slung over their shoulders. Moments later, three of MI6’s bullet proof vehicles, two sedans and a cargo van, left the garage, driving sedately down the street and vanishing into traffic. 

Yassen abruptly ordered Danube to stop at the closest hospital. Leaving Alex in the van that he’d been placed in with Sagitta, and taking half of Danube with him, he quickly entered the ER of the Royal Brompton Hospital. Stalking the halls of the emergency area, he brushed aside a nurse who tried to stop him, seeing a doctor round the corner ahead. 

“I need your help,” Yassen growled at the doctor, grabbing his white coat and dragging him back through the hospital. An orderly began approaching, but stopped, seeing the guns that Yassen’s security team suddenly had in their hands. 

The group retreated to the cars, taking the helpless doctor with them. As they climbed in, Ben Daniels’ and Mrs Jones’ still unconscious forms were pushed out of the other two vehicles, leaving them in the hospital’s entrance. Yassen pushed the doctor into the back of the cargo van, then climbed in himself, and all three cars immediately left the grounds. 

\------------------------------------

At precisely 3pm, 48 hours after the Wimbledon attack, two helicopters halted their tourist-like meanderings across London and abruptly locked on to their respective targets. Each fired a series of bunker buster bombs from within their specially modified cabins towards a building. Afterwards, the helicopters flew off in different directions and vanished into the distance. Azov and Baikal could be trusted to make their own ways out of the country undetected. 

The targets were the Royal & General Bank in Liverpool Street, and the SIS Building at Vauxhall, on the banks of the Thames. Both buildings were completely obliterated. There were no survivors. 

\------------------------------------

In a cosy cottage nestled amongst the tiny Irish village of Ramelton, Derek Smithers’ mouth dropped open in shock as he watched the news broadcast on television. MI6 had been effectively destroyed by Scorpia. Thousands of agents, all or most of their safe houses, and the two primary UK headquarters of British intelligence, all destroyed in a matter of days. The worldwide intelligence community must be quaking in their boots, he thought, slightly hysterically, glad now that he had listened to Alex’s warning to leave. 

He had no doubt that Alex had either escaped or been rescued before the Liverpool Street building was destroyed; in fact, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Alex had caused the explosion during his escape. The boy did like his explosions. In the privacy of his own mind, Smithers was able to admit that he was glad. Glad that the boy had got out, and glad that Blunt would never again be able to treat another child as he had Alex. The extreme death toll was unfortunate, and Smithers felt a great deal of sorrow for the agents and other staff who had been caught up in this struggle, but he was still glad that Alex was finally free of MI6’s grasp at last. 

Musing on what his own future might look like now, Smithers glanced over at the expensive looking necklace on his desk. Thin, delicate strands of silver, set with black stones, it was a beautiful piece of work. Perhaps his options were wider than he thought . . .

\------------------------------------

Dr Drake stared with dismay at the unconscious figure of a boy on the floor of the cargo van before him. He glanced at the pair of silent men opposite him, backs tensely crammed against the two seats in the front of the vehicle. Another two men were in the front, and like the one next to him, all were dressed in black combat gear. They were all holding a variety of guns as well. None were pointed at him anymore, but the looks he was receiving from them all made it clear that that could change in an instant. 

Drake swallowed his fear and focussed on the boy in front of him. He looked like he was dead, and like he was much younger than 16. Starvation was clearly evident, and he appeared to have been tortured judging by the numerous cuts, multiple bruises and variety of burn marks that could be seen. A large bandage was wrapped around his right hand. 

“ _Help him,_ ” the man next to him ordered, shoving Drake forwards. 

“Oh my god,” Drake exclaimed, looking at the youth before him. “How old is he? What did you do to him?”

“He is 16. We rescued him from this,” was the terse reply. The other men shifted unhappily. 

Kneeling down, Drake quickly started checking his vitals. 

“Does he have any spinal injuries?” he snapped out. 

“We don’t know. He fell down when the gas hit him.”

“Gas?” Dr Drake looked up quickly at the leader who had spoken. “What kind of gas?”

“Carfentanil,” the leader replied. “Exposure was between ten and thirty minutes, and he was removed from the area forty minutes ago.”

“Well he won’t be in any pain at least, but given the vulnerable state he’s in, I can’t predict what kind of effect that will have on him. I could reverse the effects with Naloxone if we were in a hospital…” he trailed off. 

“Tell us what you need and we will get it,” the leader demanded, as one of the other men took out a notebook and prepared to make a list. 

“Tell us everything that we will need. _Everything._ ”

Three vehicles entered the lowest level of a multi-storey car park on the eastern side of London early that afternoon. Not long after, two nondescript cars left from opposite entrances, heading in different directions. A few moments later, a white stretched limousine also left the car park. It had a large floral wreath attached to the front of the car with a sign saying “Just Married” in elegant script. Two wide white ribbons stretched back from the wreath in a V, attached to each side of the front windscreen. Another, smaller sign was attached to the back of the car, with a smaller floral garland swinging cheerily below it. Its windows heavily tinted, the car headed east. 

Two hours later, the limousine arrived at Margate. It had stopped along the way to allow collection of the supplies that Dr Drake had listed. With fourteen people now in their group, one of the newly hired cars continued on behind them as they started their journey again. It was not the same as the ones that had left the car park earlier, not that Drake had any time to notice such details. 

\------------------------------------

Perception returning.

A sharp prick in his arm - _again?_

Someone holding him down. _No! Not again._

Eyes fluttering, struggling to open. _What is happening to me?_

_Dizziness._ Head spinning; an overwhelming feeling of nausea. _No!_

The stench of his body, old blood and acrid sweat, the taste of fear in his mouth.

Soft murmurs, a low rumbling vibrating through his body. _What happened to all the pain?_

_._

_._

_._

_Am I dying?_

\------------------------------------

Dr Drake had since been busy inside the limousine, getting the boy started on an IV line first, to start replacing lost fluids and nutrients. The boy wasn’t as badly dehydrated as expected, but he’d clearly lost a lot of weight in a short space of time. They’d arranged him along the bench seat running down the side of the limo, his bandaged hand carefully placed on his chest, one of the men holding the IV pole steady near his head. Another man, who seemed to be a medic, assisted Drake as he muttered to himself, working on the boy carefully. All of the men seemed to be extraordinarily protective of the boy, despite their violent appearance and weapons. It was very strange.

“Most of his wounds are relatively minor in severity, we can deal with them later. I don’t want to touch that hand yet, I suspect the bones have been damaged judging by the size of the swelling, and it’s going to need X-rays. The starvation is our biggest problem. His body won’t be able to regulate his temperature, his kidney function will be impaired and his immune system weak. We’ll be lucky if his organs haven’t already started to fail. Do you know how long he was starved for?”

“Thirteen days,” the leader answered. Another of the men spoke up “He may have had some food in the last day or so. I saw tv dinner dishes in the room he was in when we found him.”

“Hmm. That will help.” Drake spoke thoughtfully. “His muscle mass is substantially reduced, and his blood pressure is much lower than I’d like it to be. His heart rate is steady at least, which is a blessing. I expect him to wake soon now that I’ve given him the Naloxone. We will need to start the refeeding process as soon as we can. You’re going to need a lot of powdered nutritional supplement, something like Ensure Nutrivigor, foods that are high in calories but easily digestible. Bland food like unseasoned rice, and vegetables is a good way to start. Small portions but often. Are you sure we can’t take him to a hospital?” he finished pleadingly. 

“It is not an option.” 

“Right. Well. What is his name?” 

“Alex.”

“Right. Well, Alex may be lethargic when he wakes up, or he may be violent. The body reacts to starvation as a threat,” Dr Drake lectured, running his hand through his unruly brown hair. “He may act like a cornered animal reacting to perceived threats. We need to be prepared for anything.”

At Margate Harbour, a chartered luxury super yacht awaited them. Alex had stirred slightly, earlier on the drive, and was just starting to come around as they arrived, moving slowly and groggily. He struggled weakly against them as Yassen and Mace lifted him carefully out of the car, then froze as he opened his eyes and looked straight out onto the ocean, shimmering and blue in the bright sunlight. 

“ _Aleks_ ,” Yassen murmured softly, stroking his hair, “we have you. You are safe.” Alex looked up at Yassen, confusion and fear turning to relief, and he relaxed into Yassen’s arms, eyes fluttering shut again. 

Leaving the keys for the limousine with the harbour master as arranged with the rental agency, the group boarded the super yacht. Mace and Adams carried the bundles of medical equipment while Marcus carried the IV line that was still attached to Alex. 

Dr Drake followed nervously, eyeing the guns that were suddenly in the hands of the other men, pointed straight at him while being kept out of the eyesight of the harbour master, as were certain other items. Yassen carried Alex straight to one of the larger cabins, placing him gently on the bed while Marcus arranged the IV line carefully nearby. Turning, Yassen saw Dr Drake hovering uncertainly in the passageway outside the room, his brown eyes pinched and worried looking. Shale loomed behind him. 

“Thank you for helping him. I would … appreciate it if you continue to help him for the near future. We will release you when we arrive at our destination, unharmed,” Yassen spoke softly. “He is … important to us.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I can see that. Of course I will keep helping him. No child should be tortured like that, it’s unconscionable. Unconscionable,” Dr Drake muttered to himself as he entered the room. 

“Mace, was it? Come in here and help me. We need to start cleaning these wounds.”

Aboveboard, orders were shouted and lines were cast off as the next stage of their journey got underway. 

Just over a week later, the super yacht docked at St Petersburg Harbour in Russia. 

\------------------------------------

Alex had regained consciousness fully shortly after they’d left England. The first time he awoke inside the yacht’s cabin, it was night. Alex felt very confused about his surroundings and what had happened. There was a strange man in the cabin with him, doing something with some medical equipment, and Alex lashed out, thinking he was about to be drugged. The man, wearing an oddly grubby white doctor's coat, slumped against the wall of the cabin and groaned, holding his ribs where Alex had just kicked him as hard as he could. A wave of dizziness washed over Alex as he started to sit up, and he slumped back against the bed head and groaned as well. 

Entering the cabin after hearing the small scuffle, Yassen’s lips twitched in amusement at the pair slumped opposite each other, both groaning. 

“I see you have met your doctor, Alex.”

Alex’s tension eased on seeing Yassen. _Oh, that’s right. He’d been rescued._ Vague memories of motion - _a car ride?_ \- drifted into his mind. _So this guy is a doctor. Right._ Looking him over, Alex noticed that he looked like an older version of that Spiderman actor that Jack liked so much. Ted someone or other. 

“Sorry I kicked you,” Alex offered. 

“Ah, well yes, I did warn everyone that you might be violent when you awoke. I should have listened to myself,” the doctor said affably. “I’m Dr Drake. Pleased to meet you, Alex.”

Sagitta took turns sitting with Alex throughout the weeks’ sail. Marcus stayed with Alex constantly at first, his feelings of guilt over his failure to protect his charge manifesting in an obsessive Mother Hen type of overprotectiveness. Alex put up it with it to begin with, being too ill to make a fuss. On the third day, however, Marcus tried to follow him into the very small, cramped toilet on board.

“Marcus,” Alex said calmly, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Marcus replied, “What if you pass out in there?”

“I won’t. But if you’ll feel better about it, I’ll leave the door unlocked. You can get in if you need to – but, don’t, please.”

After completing his business and leaving the head, Alex leaned up against the hallway wall and looked Marcus in the eye.

“It wasn’t your fault you know.”

Marcus looked down and didn’t reply.

“I don’t blame you. There was nothing more you could have done. You helped get me out of MI6, even injured. You did nothing wrong.”

Marcus looked up, “I just wish….”

“I know. I do too. But it’s over now,” Alex patted him on the arm. “It’s done.”

They returned to Alex’s cabin, Marcus’s shoulders visibly highly and his step lighter.

Mace reassured him when he hesitantly asked about Ivey, fearing his death, and was gratified by how relieved Alex was upon being told of his survival. Shale, Adams and Jarek were also able to reassure him about Jack’s wellbeing, to his additional relief. When Alex asked about Scorpia’s attacks on MI6, they told him the barest details, leaving a more thorough discussion of their tactics for another time. Yassen sat with him often as well, though Alex remained unusually quiet when they were together. Yassen put it down to his injuries and malnourished state, not letting his concern show. 

Various team members took turns to check on their other, involuntary passenger at sporadic times during the crossing. Blunt wasn’t fed, as Alex hadn’t been fed, but he was allowed sufficient water. Yassen didn’t want the older man dying from dehydration before they were finished with him. His mouth was bound so that Alex didn’t hear him. They had stripped him and thrown all of his clothes and belongings overboard soon after leaving England. Sagitta had beaten him, taking what small measure of revenge Yassen allowed them. Yassen had also spent some time with Blunt, wiping blood from his hands as he left the cabin afterwards.

The rest of the time, Blunt was ignored. 

Alex spent the week eating small amounts of plain, soft food and drinking lots of water or protein shakes. He was extremely groggy for the first few days, Dr Drake having given him several doses of strong painkillers. During the latter part of the trip, Alex was able to move around more, having regained some energy and mobility. He could often be found on the open rear deck, sitting on the comfortable couches and quietly looking out over the endless blue ocean. The IV drip was still attached, but was removed as they neared their destination, Dr Drake deeming him recovered enough to do without it for now. 

A day before they made landfall, Yassen sent for Dr Drake, waiting for him on the deck. 

“How is he?” Yassen asked. 

“Children succumb to starvation much more quickly than adults. Their bodies don’t have the reserves that adults have, so it affects them much faster. Conversely, they have a much greater ability to bounce back quickly once they begin eating again,” Dr Drake told him. “Alex will need to take it easy for quite some time, and will need to continue to eat plenty of small meals, often, just as he has been. He will need to be monitored very carefully. There is still the risk of refeeding syndrome, which can be fatal in cases like his. He will also need more antibiotics for the infection in the wound on his side, and his left fore-arm is most probably broken.” 

Dr Drake paused, visibly concerned, before he continued. 

“His hand is worrying me. It’s very badly damaged, crushed with something, in several different places. I can’t tell for sure without an X-ray, but I’d say there are multiple fractures on each finger, including the thumb, as well as within the palm itself. He’s going to need an Orthopaedic Surgeon, preferably an Orthopaedic Hand Surgeon, and probably multiple surgeries. Even with that, he may never regain full use of it. The nerve damage alone may never heal properly, and the scar tissue will require extensive physical therapy. It’s beyond my level of expertise I’m afraid,” he admitted.

“We will get him whatever he needs,” the reply came.

Dr Drake swallowed. He wondered if that meant that they would simply kidnap whatever doctor was required, as they had him. 

“You have done well so far with what you have had to work with. It is appreciated,” Yassen continued slowly. “Is he stabilised enough to continue our journey without you?”

Dr Drake paused and thought about it. “Your medic, Mace. He is competent. Barring any complications, Alex should be fine. If he develops refeeding syndrome, or any other complications . . . he could die.”

Yassen breathed in softly, and stilled. He looked at Dr Drake, and the doctor saw raw emotion in the depths of his eyes. _He really cares for the boy,_ Dr Drake thought. 

“I know I said we’d release you when we reach port, and I will honour that if you so choose.” Yassen paused, and swallowed audibly, before continuing in a husky voice, “Would you consider continuing on with us a little further, until we reach our true destination? For Alex’s sake.”

Dr Drake hoped he wouldn’t regret his answer in the future. Despite his best intentions to remain aloof, Alex had grown on him over the past week. The boy had never complained, throughout all of the uncomfortable but necessary treatments he’d been put through.

Even when Dr Drake had been required to perform a fasciotomy under less than optimal circumstances, slicing Alex’s right hand open in multiple locations to relieve the pressure of the swelling and hopefully avoid future amputation. That procedure had caused horrendous pain, but Alex still hadn’t complained. Groaned, cursed and even fainted at one point as Yassen held him still, yes, but never complained. Who was this boy, who could withstand pain so stoically, who inspired such protectiveness, such loyalty? Dr Drake was curious. _I hope I don’t end up like the proverbial cat._

“Yes. I will come.” The look of relief in the face of the man in front of him reassured him that there, at least, he would have an ally in whatever strange future he was heading towards.

  
  


\------------------------------------


	5. An Illustration

Yassen finds Alex unconscious.

Artwork by the author.


	6. Chapter 6

Jack paced the battlements on top of the Plague Fort fretfully, keeping watch over the waters of the Gulf of Finland surrounding the island. She knew that Alex and Yassen were due to arrive today. Dr Three had told her days ago that Alex had been injured, that he was being treated and “was not likely to die.” but hadn’t bothered to give her any other details. Jack had been worrying ever since. 

The arrival of all of Malagosto’s personnel two weeks ago had occurred over a number of nights, in an attempt to keep their occupation of the island fortress as quiet as possible for as long as possible. The Russian Government, of course, was aware of their presence. Also aware that the lack of MI6 agents in their country, or indeed in the world, was due to Scorpia, the Government showed their gratitude by doing nothing at all. 

Dr Three himself took Jack on a tour of the building the next day, showing her the modifications he’d made since Scorpia had purchased the island a few years ago. 

“We always knew that the Abu Dhabi compound couldn’t last forever,” Dr Three told Jack as they walked the open courtyard that was surrounded by the oval-shaped building. “This is just one of several sites that we could have relocated too, but given the nature of current events, I felt this one was particularly suitable.”

“Suitable?” Jack inquired, not entirely sure that she really wanted to know. 

“Oh yes. It is called Plague Fort because of its history as a plague research base. Although this island was purpose built as a military fort, it was never particularly effective as such. So the Russian government renovated it in the early 1900’s for their scientists to study such delightful viruses as cholera, tetanus, and even the bubonic plague. They built research labs, containment labs, a stable for the horses they were trialling vaccines on, a cremation facility for lab animals, a science library and other auxiliary facilities. All of which we have been able to update and improve upon for our own purposes, and now here we are!” he concluded triumphantly. 

Jack looked at him sideways, confused. “I still don’t see what any of that has to do with current events?” she asked. 

“Oh! Well my dear, Plague Fort is not its original name, no not at all!” Dr Three said cheerily with a small smile. Jack raised her eyebrows back at him and pointedly refused to ask again. Dr Three looked momentarily disappointed in her, then visibly decided to brush past it, beaming again. 

“Its original, and real name, is Fort Alexander,” he announced, clearly pleased with himself. “What better place for the return of the heir than to a fort with his very own name on it?”

\------------------------------------

Two medium sized boats docked at the jetty jutting out from the front of the fort early in the afternoon. Yassen and Dr Drake assisted Alex as he moved slowly and carefully from the boat to the dock.

Having seen their approach, their identities verified by radio, Jack was permitted out onto the dock to meet them. Taken aback by Alex’s bedraggled state, she cautiously approached him and stopped very close. 

“I’m not sure whether I should hug you or not,” she admitted softly. Smiling, Alex responded by putting his left arm around her and hugging her. Sighing with her own relief, Jack gently hugged him back. 

“It’s good to have you home.” she told him, wiping tears from her eyes. Alex nodded, wiping his own eyes as well, and they both ignored the sudden rapid blinking of eyes and clearing of throats in the group of men around them. 

While Alex was being escorted into the fort by Jack, Marcus, Adams and Dr Drake, Yassen paused as one of the larger bundles still being offloaded from the boats moved slightly. 

“Deliver that to Dr Three,” he told the members of team Sagitta who were still on the dock, before following Alex inside. 

By that evening, Alex had been settled into the well equipped medical wing and had stoically endured a thorough check by Dr Jarvadi. Ivey lay in the next bed over, his condition stable, though he was still in a coma. Dr Jarvadi had approved of Dr Drake’s treatment thus far, placed a light, temporary cast on Alex’s left arm, and the two doctors were now discussing the next steps in his treatment in her office. A huge gift basket stood next to Alex’s bed, stuffed to the brim with delicious treats and other assorted items, such as a complete set of flaying knives, held in a leather case with the Orion constellation embossed on the front. The largest item in the basket was a brand new, hardbound colour edition of Dr Three’s latest book ‘Anatomy: A Primer for the Youngest Students’. A handwritten note inside the front cover expressed Dr Three’s sincere appreciation for the chance to wage Holy War on MI6. 

Yassen came to the door of Alex’s med bay and paused, hovering uncertainly. 

“Alex,” he stated. Alex looked up at him, fear suddenly flashing in his eyes. _This was it._

“Yes, sir?” he asked neutrally, determined not to make a scene when Yassen told him what his future was to be. Alex had been waiting for this moment for their entire journey, well for those moments of it that he’d been lucid enough for thoughts to form, anyway.

“Why have you been so … short with me?” Yassen asked. “I - I have been … wondering if I have done something to upset you.” he continued hesitantly. 

“You upset me?” Alex asked incredulously, “It’s me who’s upset you! I’ve half been expecting a bullet each day, waiting for you to decide how you’ll do it. I don’t even know why you’ve brought me here!”

“You think I’m going to kill you?” Yassen asked in surprise, “Why would I do that?”

“ _Because I’m a cripple now_.” Alex ground out through gritted teeth, breathing rapidly as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. “I let myself be captured, and imprisoned by MI6. I know you don’t want a second who’s crippled, who’s useless. What good am I to you now?” he asked in despair, tears shining in his eyes as he looked up at Yassen. 

“Oh malen’kiy Aleks. I could never kill you. Shhh.” Yassen murmured, as he sat on the side of the bed and gathered Alex into his arms. “Your capture was simply bad luck, your Devil’s luck was bound to run out sooner or later. We will do all that is necessary to make you whole again. And if that is not enough, we will change the world to suit you. After all, we have already destroyed MI6 for you. Anything is possible now.”

Alex sighed, and melted into Yassen’s embrace, a tenseness that he hadn’t even been aware of dissipating from within him. _Yassen still wanted him._

“Are they really all dead?” he asked sleepily, exhaustion taking over now that he knew he wouldn’t be cast out, or killed. 

“We allowed Jones and Daniels to live. For you.” Yassen replied. “Smithers left a few days before, I assume he is still alive.” 

“Blunt?” Alex asked hesitantly. 

“Dead,” Yassen said firmly. 

“Hhmmph,” Alex mumbled vaguely, a slight frown creasing his forehead for a moment before vanishing as sleep beckoned.

“Alex?”

“Mmmph?”

“Why didn’t you let them release you?” Yassen asked.

“Mmm dunno. Felt like a trick,” Alex muttered, eyes shut, “Didn’t trust ‘em.” 

A small smile crossed Yassen’s face at Alex’s answer, and he ran his hand gently through Alex’s hair.

Alex drifted off to sleep. He was home, and all was right in his world.

Jack found them later than evening. Yassen was looked supremely uncomfortable, lying awkwardly on the side of the hospital bed with one arm around Alex. Alex was asleep, curled into his side, bandaged hand tucked into his chest between them, his left arm in its half cast draped across Yassen’s chest protectively. Yassen raised his eyebrows and glared at Jack, daring her to say anything. Jack simply smirked at him, before leaving them to it. Alex was home. 

After she left, Yassen allowed his cheek to rest against the top of Alex’s head softly. His malen’kiy Aleks was home and all was right in his world. 

Yassen slept.

  
  


\------------------------------------

  
  


Dr Three made another mental note, reminding himself to find another, better way to thank Alex, and, yes, Yassen as well. Perhaps a nice house somewhere, in a warm climate. Alex would like that. 

He looked at Alan Blunt, strapped to an operating table before him, with a gag on his mouth. Words were unnecessary. 

There were many options to contemplate. So much enjoyment to be ripped from this man. So much fun to be had. Dr Three hummed as he stepped forward, wondering how long he could make this rare pleasure last. Perhaps he could break his last record. 

He began.

\------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first real attempt at whump and I didn’t know what I was doing so I decided to just basically blow a lot of stuff up and kill a lot of people. Oh and some torture. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> For anyone thinking about the implausibility of some of the plot herein, I refer you to exhibit A: AH tried to throw a space station at the Pentagon in canon. 
> 
> I am not an expert on terrorist activities in the Middle East. I needed ‘someone’ to independently blow ‘something’ up near the Malagosto compound and the Taliban taking revenge for being denied an embassy in the UAE (the denial part actually happened) fit the bill well enough. In my head canon, Devil’s Malagosto was on the bay to the south of the city, so they could look across and see an explosion.
> 
> Credit for Yassen’s declaration of “He is mine” is due to a meme I saw on the Discord server (the one about the seat belt). Panik! is of course the Panik / Kalm meme. 
> 
> I wanted to include the scene at Wimbledon right from the beginning – imagine my joy when I looked up the dates and they actually matched up with the Devil timeline. I may have whooped at my desk. I used 2021’s date because why not.   
> I hope you enjoyed my nod to Bond by having two of the actors in attendance. A third was mentioned as well, did you spot him? I also had my boy Tom there because I’m a huge MCU fan, and Otto because he is Alex Rider of course! I do feel like I may have scarred Tom & Otto mentally for life though, there is some residual guilt lingering there for that. 
> 
> This fic was Beta-ed by the very lovely Lil Lupin. Thank you for answering so very many questions, so very patiently and with such grace. You gave so much of your time for me and I am very grateful. I will continue to pay it forward.
> 
> Thank you to Cub’s Army and especially Hellacious, Totorokiicequeen, Lil Lupin, Fireexe, FreeSirius4Life & Wish for your help with the many ways that the Scorpia operatives used to murder all the MI6 agents, as well as various other discussions relating to this story.   
> Special mention award for Wish for sharing the info on The Guarapiranga Case, which I of course attributed to Dr Three. Of all people, he is the one who would work out how to do that.   
> None of you are scary in the way you think, not at all. 😊
> 
> The chemicals used in Operation Retrieval were used in the Moscow theatre hostage crisis of 2002. Yassen, being Russian, would be familiar with the events, and also doesn’t particularly care if the agents inside the building die from the gas. 
> 
> Fun fact – we had the tastiest garlic butter hot chips in Ramelton, Ireland, many years ago. Good times.
> 
> Extra thanks to Hellacious for allowing me to kidnap your Dr Drake. You can read the fic he’s in by TheInverseUniverse, titled ‘Alex Rider Discord Shorts’. The good Doctor appears in chapter 5.   
> In my headcanon he looks like an older Tom Holland, because Nathan Drake. 😊   
> Any medical inaccuracies are all mine. 
> 
> Fort Alexander, or the Plague Fort, is real. I just tinkered with it a little. 
> 
> Thank you to Pongnosis for creating the source fanon ‘The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea’. If you haven’t read it, what are you waiting for? There is also an Easter Egg from another of her works, ‘Point of Divergence.” Did you spot it?  
> (I am aware that the scene with Yassen and Alex cuddling on the bed at the end is not in character but goddammit they both needed a hug and they were going to get it)
> 
> A final note to Cub’s Army – remember, koalas are friends, not food. You guys rock. Thanks for the fun.


End file.
